Truth and Consequences
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Some memories aren't meant to be shared. Third story of In the Pusqueeter AU series. Rated T for language and some violence in later chapters. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

_This is the second sequel to "In the Pursqueeter," my AU version of the season 1 finale. You don't have to read the first two to follow this one, but it might help. (And I'd like it!) _

_For those who haven't read the preceding two stories, let me quickly bring you up to date: _

_Sam killed the demon…and John…with the Colt in the shack at the end of 'Devil's Trap.' They spent two months with Missouri, while Dean healed, and then headed east to stay with Sarah for a few weeks. _

_On the way, they were ambushed and Sam was kidnapped by Kate, the surviving vampire from 'Dead Man's Blood,' and her reconstituted vampire gang. Sam was tortured for two days before Dean was able to find and rescue him. _

_After a month recuperating at Sarah's home in New York, the boys, with Sarah in tow, found themselves forced into a hunt along the Gulf Coast, where Dean found himself in the clutches of some vengeful pre-Civil War ghosts and a voodoo witchdoctor set her sights on Sam. _

_Sam's telekinesis re-emerged at about the same time. _

_We open about a month after the events of "That Old Black Magic." _

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ _

**Truth and Consequences **

_Alamogordo__, New Mexico_

Sam Winchester gently pulled back on the pool stick, held his breath, and then pushed it forcefully between his fingers. The dirty white cue ball shot down the table, slamming into the 2 near the corner pocket. The blue ball came within a fraction of an inch of going in, but banked off the green felt walls of the table and collided into a group of other balls, scattering them.

"Dammit," he muttered. A few of the guys on either side of him chuckled. Sam frowned in annoyance, but held his tongue as he stood up and rested the cue stick against his hip. He eyed his current nemesis across the table, noting the insufferable smirk his opponent was wearing.

The shorter blonde man stepped up, lifting his cue stick with a quick twirl. He examined the table carefully. Sam watched him purse his lips, seemingly deep in concentration, and mused that the guy looked a lot like a duck when he was thinking. Shaking off the silly thought, he focused on the game again. His adversary lined up and fired the cue ball towards the striped 13- and 14-balls that rested in one corner.

Not many casual players could pull off such an audacious shot…certainly not Mr. "Haven't-Played-Since-I-Was-Ten" over there. Even attempting it was stupid. Yet Sam watched the cue ball sail down the table and send both the 13 and 14 off in separate directions to disappear into different pockets. A shocked murmur passed across the line of men on Sam's side of the room. From the sound of it, they were thinking exactly what he was. _This guy's up to something_.

Sam stared at the man. "Lucky shot?"

The other man shrugged but studiously avoided eye contact. "I guess it's better to be lucky than good, man…."

Sam snorted softly, shaking his head, "Uh-huh…." He cast a glance at the burly, flannel-clad man next to him, who returned an irritated frown. The man---Larry---had been playing against Sam in pool off and on for the past three days. He was a fairly easygoing guy who knew when to bet and, more importantly, when _not_ to bet.

Mostly, that meant _not_ betting against Sam, who'd been raking in some serious money since he'd been visiting this bar. He'd been honest about his skill---to a certain degree---from the start, but talked his way into the locals' game by challenging them to beat him. They'd taken the dare with surprising grace. Sam took a swig from the beer he'd been nursing all night and returned his attention to the game.

The blonde set up another shot, and the last two balls, the 15 and the 8, disappeared amidst angry whispers from the assembled crowd. The shorter man favored them with innocent eyes and a not-so-innocent a smirk, which Sam saw right through, and snatched the bet money off the table, "Too bad boys."

"_That's_ _it_!" Sam clenched his fists. It was time to blow the whistle on this hustler. He slammed the pool stick down on the table and stalked around the other side. With one fluid motion, he grabbed the surprised looking man by his jacket and pushed him back against the table with a scowl. The man grasped at Sam's fists feebly.

"Whoa! Whoa! Easy on the threads man!"

Sam ignored the protests and snarled in the man's face, carefully enunciating each word. "Think I'm stupid, you fucking hustler?! Think I don't know what you're doing? Give us our money back and get out of here before I stomp your ass!"

The man held his hands up, trying to look innocent and failing miserably, "Okay! Okay! Just chill out man! We're all friends here…."

Larry and one of his equally large friends stepped up behind Sam, glaring at the younger man's prisoner. Sam noticed and glanced back at them, nodding minutely in appreciation of the "backup." The man in his grip noticed too, and reached slowly into his pocket, revealing the crumpled stack of hundreds and laying it carefully on the table.

"Here, okay? I'm leaving…I don't want any trouble."

Sam responded by hauling the man around and half-dragging him towards the door. He felt anger swelling up inside him…but he wasn't really sure from where. When he looked back into the face of his quarry, instead of the hustler he saw Drew, the stocky blonde-haired vampire that had tortured him for two days back in Ohio. Rage caused the edges of his vision to blur and his fists clenched harder of their own accord.

For a moment, all he wanted to do was pummel that smirking blonde son of a bitch into a bloody mess. His breath hitched in his throat, and he saw a small note of surprise in the man's eyes…followed by a smaller note of panic. Catching himself, Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second and shook his head once to clear it. When he looked again, Drew was gone, leaving only the pool hustler's pale visage before him. _It's not Drew…Drew's dead…Dean killed him_…_it's not Drew_.

He shoved the guy away, trying to get his breathing under control as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He pointed a threatening finger at the man, and tried to keep his hand from shaking. "Don't show your lying face in here again! You hear me?"

The man's hands waved in the air in surrender, "Sure, man. Will do! Will do!" He left hurriedly, letting the door slam behind him.

Sam stared at the closed door, wondering what had just happened. Why had he suddenly been so angry? It was just like Denver. _I could have_--- His thoughts were interrupted when a meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Larry.

"I knew he was up to no good. Thanks, kid. Let's get back to the game, huh?" Sam heard other appreciative comments coming from the other men at the table.

Sam glanced back, meeting the man's eyes for a moment. He forced his mind back to the here and now, and then nodded, "Yeah…let's not let him ruin the evening."

Larry laughed, "Sure, why would we want to lose all our money to him when we can lose it to _you_?"

"Yeah, but I'm much cooler than that loser," Sam snorted in amusement. Mentally, he chided himself. _I've been around Dean too long_…. The remark got laughs from the other men, though, and Sam nodded Larry back to reset the table.

He looked back at the door, still trying to control the anger that had hit him out of nowhere. It scared him…he'd truly wanted to beat that guy to death. _Drew's dead…he can't hurt me again. Let it go_.

He repeated the mantra that had reassured him for the last two months. His opposing pool player wasn't responsible…he had nothing to do with his abuse at the hands of those vampires.

Taking a last deep breath, he turned on his heel and went back to the table. He plastered the deceptive grin that his brother had taught him on his face…the one that could get him anything he wanted, and retrieved his discarded pool stick.

He wished Dean was there with him.

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ _

Two hours later, Sam was walking down the street towards his hotel room. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around his tall frame, trying to block out the surprisingly chilly night air. He liked to think of New Mexico as a warm state…but this trip was seriously disappointing him.

He'd played three more games with the burly bar patrons, throwing one and winning the next two before calling it a night. His claim of needing to "call his girl" aided his escape, with several of them commiserating with him about the need to keep "the old ball & chain" happy.

Sam played along with their banter…though Sarah Blake was hardly a "ball & chain" in his mind. He actually _did_ want to call Sarah, but with the time zone difference between New Mexico and New York it was too late to do so. That particular pleasure would have to wait until tomorrow.

The two-and-a-half block walk back to the room hadn't seemed to take so long on the way down to the bar. Of course, it had been a balmy 85 degrees earlier that evening. He idly wondered what was causing the sudden cold front.

_Freakin' El Nino or something out here_….

He jumped slightly at the sound of Dean's voice. Over the last two months or so---ever since his abduction---he'd been hearing Dean's voice periodically in his head. At first, he'd assumed it was a symptom of his concussion…later he rationalized it as a defense mechanism…and eventually, he'd simply accepted that the voice wasn't going away. He rarely heard it anymore.

He hadn't told Dean. If he had, his brother would just worry himself to death over Sam's continuing post-abduction trauma, and that was something Sam wanted to stop. He just wanted to move on.

At least the voice only came out when he was tired now. That made it easier to rationalize as part of his imagination. Of course, that also made it all the more jarring when he **did** hear it. _Just_ _can't win_….

He reached the vicinity of the hotel, and jogged across the street. Despite the fact that their late father had somehow managed to secure a substantial life insurance policy---Sam was still puzzling _that_ feat over, given John's off-the-grid lifestyle---that they had been able to claim, they still chose to stay in less-than-ritzy hotels. They'd barely scratched the surface of the money, which they were storing in a safety deposit box in Lawrence for safekeeping.

The familiar sight of the black Impala resting in front of his hotel room warmed his heart irrationally. It was his _brother's_ car, not his, and he often wondered just when he had grown so fond of it. Maybe it wasn't so much the car as its owner.

He reached the door to the room, and was about to insert his key when a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder. He turned warily, only to find himself face to face with the shorter blonde man from the bar, who was leaning casually against the wooden beam in front of the Impala.

"Little rough on me back there, buddy boy."

Sam couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Well, I had to sell it, didn't I?"

Dean returned the smile. "Remind me never to try and cheat _you_…. Next time you're playing the hustler."

Laughing lightly, Sam unlocked the door and ushered his older brother inside. They shed their coats by the door and removed the concealed handguns from their belts. They didn't go very far unarmed anymore. They'd seen too much and made too many enemies.

Sam paused by the bed, "We might want to move on. We've scammed about every player and pool hall in town." He paused, "Why'd you want to go hustling anyway? We've barely touched Dad's insurance money. We don't _need_ to scam the locals."

Dean began removing his watch and emptying his pockets, "Hustling's like any other muscle, Sammy…you gotta keep it in shape. Never know when you might need it. How much did you get tonight?"

Sam pulled the wad of cash from his pocket and flipped through it quickly, "Three hundred and fifty. You?"

Dean was unfolding his take and grinning, "Two hundred, but, wait…" he reached into his other pocket and revealed more cash with a touch of melodramatic flair, "_Look_…another three hundred. So five. Told you I'd get more than you."

Sam blinked in disbelief, "How did---? I thought you put that last three hundred back down?"

"That's what you get for drinking on the job, Sammy. I gave 'em those counterfeit hundreds that guy in Phoenix laid on me…."

Sam smiled genuinely, "You're good."

"Heh, not as good as you, man. You convinced all those guys that you were the honest player. I guess being in 'Our Town' when you were little finally paid off for you."

Sam chuckled, forgetting himself for a moment when he answered. "Guess so. I _must_ have been pretty good. I even saw panic in _your_ eyes back there…."

Dean snorted, "Well…wasn't all faked. For a second, I seriously thought you were going to kill me," he sobered, "What happened back there?"

Sam cursed himself; he'd walked right into it. He should have known Dean wasn't going to let the incident rest. Not after what happened the last time.

Suddenly uncomfortable, and embarrassed that he'd fallen into Dean's little verbal trap, Sam made a show of pulling off his shoes to buy time, and then sank onto the edge of Dean's bed, "Oh. Um…nothing. It was nothing. I just got lost in the part."

"Sam…."

Dean plopped down on the bed beside Sam…that's when Sam knew he wouldn't be dodging this conversation. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, and looked anywhere but at his older brother's concerned eyes. Irrationally, he felt like a scolded child, even though he knew his brother didn't mean to come off that way.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Sammy, come on," Dean replied, softer this time, "I'm not lookin' for an apology."

"I…uh--- For a second, I saw his face. Just for a second."

He knew he didn't have to explain _whose_ face. Dean knew all too well what "face" he was talking about. Drew…the vampire that tortured him…and whose memory had been following Sam around like a dark cloud ever since that week in Ohio. The mere mention of his name made the healed scars on his chest itch.

Sam stole a glance at his brother's face, expecting to see reproach…or pity, which was worse. To his surprise he found neither. Dean just raised his eyebrows in understanding and nodded faintly.

"Oh. Well, good thing you caught yourself, then. The last time that happened, you put the guy in the hospital."

Sam didn't need the reminder. After leaving Missouri's house a month earlier, they'd been in Denver working a poltergeist. The spirit of a woman---who'd been murdered by her next-door neighbor as it turned out---was haunting her old residence. It seemed that her spirit was trying to warn the new occupants about the danger of the man next door: Greg Stimpson.

Stimpson had been a young, stocky---psychotic---blonde male about 5'11." When they'd discovered what he'd done, they went to confront him. It wasn't their normal kind of hunt, but they couldn't just let Stimpson keep killing people.

In the course of the "discussion" that followed, Sam had lost it, and Dean had been forced to pull his younger brother off the guy before he killed him. As it was, the little sociopath had been sent to the hospital with a concussion and a broken jaw.

It was only the fact that the man had been a murderer---and that they had gathered enough evidence to prove it---that had kept Sam and Dean out of trouble. The local sheriff had known the murdered woman, and helpfully looked the other way on the assault issue. They'd booked as soon as they could, leaving the poltergeist job unfinished. Chances were the ghost would fade anyway once the murderer was locked away.

They both knew that it could have been much worse.

Sam was having flashbacks again. But, this time, instead of just remembering the events, he was seeing his tormentor's face on anyone that had similar physical features. Sights and sounds had been common triggers for the previous round of flashbacks during Sam's recovery…but then they had triggered _panic_, not rage. When Sam suffered one now, he was overcome by a furious need for revenge.

In Denver the guy had deserved it; he'd actually been a monster, although one of the _human_ kind. Tonight, the target had almost been Dean. Sam didn't want to think of what might have happened if he had not stopped himself in time.

Sam sighed dejectedly, dropping his face into his hands. "Every time I think I'm past it---"

Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Hey. Don't worry about it. You caught yourself before I had to kick your ass. That's what's important."

Sam laughed despite himself and nudged back. He played along, more out of habit than actual levity. "Yeah? You and what army, Shorty?"

Dean answered by hitting him in the back with the pillow. "Get off my bed, Jolly Green. I'm gonna try and find us a gig."

His brother did have a knack for lightening his mood.

Sam retreated to his own bed while Dean flipped through the paper he'd snagged from the bar. He was glad the conversation had taken a lighter turn. Right now, all he wanted to do was put Drew and his abduction out of his mind again. Though, he had to admit, that had been getting a lot harder since they'd left New York.

His burgeoning relationship with Sarah Blake had consumed much of his attention while they were there. Her idea of "therapy" was considerably different, and more pleasurable, than Dean's. Although, much to Dean's apparent disapproval, they had spent as many nights simply talking as they had…_distracting_ each other.

Sarah had proven to be an excellent "distraction" from his memories of Drew---

_Aaand there he is again_. _Right back to Drew_.

Sam sighed softly. He willed the sadistic son-of-a-bitch out of his thoughts. This time he chose to distract himself the way Dean had advised him to a few weeks back.

He pictured Sarah naked.

It worked, as promised. _Simple but effective_….

Changing into his sleep clothes, he dropped onto the waiting bed with a huff. While Dean studied the newspaper, Sam leaned against the headboard and picked up the television remote, intent on flipping channels. Dean noticed and looked up from his search.

"Have you, uh…you know…today?"

Sam ignored him, trying to look casual as he clicked past infomercials and newscasts. Ignoring Dean rarely worked, but he really didn't feel like practicing tonight. As expected, Dean wasn't dissuaded.

"Sam…."

"Come on, Dean…not tonight. I'm beat."

"You know the rules, Sam. Once a day. Besides, when you're tired is the best time to exercise."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's rendition of John Winchester's old Marine drill instructor shtick.

"Sam."

"Okay! Okay. Fine," he pointed the remote at the TV and stared at it.

"No hands, Sam."

Sam sighed dramatically, "You know, I'm not _ten_…you don't have to talk down to me."

"Of course I don't," Dean intoned patiently. _Too patiently_. He could always get under Sam's skin like that. Sam flipped him off and set the remote down beside him on the bed.

He focused on it, furrowing his brow in concentration. He tried to visualize what he wanted to happen. That was usually the best way to make it work. The remote lay still for a moment, before jerkily rising into the air and pointing itself at the TV. The channels began flipping rapidly.

"Easy. Just relax and focus on what you're doing," Dean chimed. He didn't bother to look up from the paper, reciting by rote, having spoken similar words every night for more than three weeks. Sam knew without looking, though, that Dean was covertly watching him.

His fatigue was making the effort more difficult, and Sam grunted as a spike of pain flared behind his eyes. The batteries flew out of the remote with a loud **_pop_**, and the TV shut off abruptly. The remote and the batteries fell to the bed with a _thump_. He looked forlornly at Dean, whose eyes had left the paper and were flicking back and forth from the remote to Sam and back.

"I think you're _over_-thinking it, Sammy…." Sam replied with a soft groan, "You okay?"

"Headache…." Sam whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against the dull throbbing ache that had appeared in his forehead. He slid down the headboard, lying flatter on the bed.

Dean nodded and folded the paper over, "Yup. You overdid it. I told you, just relax and let it come naturally."

With effort, Sam cracked one eye open and looked at his brother incredulously, "Let my TELEKINESIS come _naturally_?"

"Hmm," Dean frowned, "point taken. Still---"

Sam let out a tired sigh, "I know, I know. It's just…sometimes I wonder why I bother." He'd been trying for almost a month now to gain control over his psychic gift, ever since it had re-emerged so suddenly during their trip to Mississippi with Sarah. Despite Dean's encouragement, he was no closer to controlling it---_really_ controlling it---than he had been then.

Dean stood, stepped over and dropped onto Sam's bed, punching Sam's arm lightly as he did, "Hey, Sammy…I know you're frustrated. And, I know I can't really understand what it's like to have…an _ability_…like this. But, I really do think that if you can get this under control, the visions won't be far behind. You just gotta keep trying, man."

Sam opened his eyes part way and met his brother's gaze, "Yeah. I know."

"It's only been a few weeks; we'll figure it out," Dean continued, "Headache bad?"

"Nothing some sleep won't cure."

"Good, 'cause I got us a gig."

Sam pulled himself up and took the paper out of Dean's outstretched hand, "What is it?"

Dean pointed to a small article at the bottom of the page, "Read. Right here."

Sam read aloud from the page, squinting to clear his vision through the headache, "Um…local man found dead, no cause found…." He looked up at Dean skeptically, but Dean just motioned back to the article.

"Keep going."

"Police suspect foul play, but examiners could find no cause for the man's demise…wounds were severe…but _not_ severe enough to cause death. Only suspect is George McDowell, a local cemetery worker, who had been seen in the vicinity…but no evidence has been found that links him to the incident. Hmm. Where was this?" he scanned the headline, "_Truth or Consequences_? What the hell…is that a town?"

"Yeah, little place. They named themselves after that old game show back in the fifties. All part of some big publicity stunt."

He looked at his older brother as if he'd announced that he could fly, "Dude…how…_why_ do you know that?"

"Hey, I know things."

Sam stared at him until Dean shrugged and admitted the truth, "Okay. I saw a special about game shows the other day on the History Channel."

"_You_ were watching the History Channel?"

"Yeah, while you were busy soaking up all the hot water like a punk," Dean shot back, then looked at him expectantly, "Well?"

Sam nodded slowly, "Sounds like a maybe…yeah. We should check it out."

Dean patted him on the knee, grinning like a child with a new toy, "Man after my own heart, Sammy. Get some rest. Game Show Central isn't far from here. We can head over tomorrow."

"All right."

Sam settled into his bed while Dean moved back over toward his own. He let his eyes start drifting shut as he watched his sibling pour salt lines along the door and windows, then undress and climb under the covers. He saw Dean's eyes meet his.

"Don't worry, Sam. We'll figure it out."

Sam knew he was referring to his trouble with the telekinesis, but he didn't answer. Instead, he just smiled slightly and pulled the sheets closer to his head.

"'Night, Dean."

"Goodnight, little brother," Dean replied quietly, communicating more in those three simple, heartfelt words than most "normal" people did in a lifetime of chick-flick moments, before shutting off the lights.

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ _

_He was in Denver. He knew it because he remembered the ugly siding on the houses and the incessantly barking dogs next door. He saw the blonde man, the sociopathic neighbor…Greg Stimpson…no…not Stimpson…Drew. The vampire. Before he knew what was happening, he was on top of the stocky man, punching him in the face. He couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to stop himself. _

_He felt hands grab his shoulders. Dean. _

_"Sam! SAM! Get off of him! Sammy stop! You're gonna kill him!" _

_He felt the strong arms pulling him back, and Dean wrestling him to the ground. He screamed with rage, straining to get up, but Dean held him down. The blonde man---not Drew, Stimpson---bled quietly a few feet from him until the world dissolved and was replaced by a tacky hotel room. Another tacky hotel room…. _

_He sat on the bed, staring at the closed bathroom door. He could see himself when he looked down…he was wearing only a towel, as if he'd just came from the shower. But he was disconnected. Numb. He didn't feel a draft or even know why he wasn't dressed. He looked up at the door again. Well…his head moved and he WAS looking at it again, anyway. He waited until the door opened, and his brother stepped out, also wearing a towel. _

_"Sam…why aren't you getting dr---" _

_He didn't wait for Dean to finish; he stood and jerked his head in Dean's direction. Dean slammed into the wall without Sam ever moving toward him. Then, he was in front of Dean, pressing Dean's own knife against his throat. _

_"How're you _feeling_, big brother?" he sneered. _

_He glanced in the nearby mirror…and did a double take. Drew's image looked back at him. His eyes were cold, hateful. Blood dripped from his fanged mouth. Shifting his gaze back to Dean, the hotel room dissolved and the cabin from Ohio shimmered into existence. Dean hung from the ceiling rafters, the chains clinked lightly as he swung back and forth. _

_It wasn't possible. This place had been destroyed. Dean had burnt it to the ground. _

_Sam felt himself grin as he slowly drug the blade down his brother's chest, living a trail of crimson blood pouring out of the incision. _

_Dean's anguished eyes looked down at him, but his voice was cold and unfeeling when he spoke. _

_"Never better…." _

Sam gasped and lurched into a sitting position on the bed. Panting, he glanced over, finding Dean sleeping peacefully in the other bed. He blinked away the last vestiges of the dream, shaking his head slightly in order to clear it. The images of Dean bleeding stayed with him, as did the sight of Drew looking back at him from the mirror.

He wiped the sweat off his face, and swung his legs onto the floor. The cabin was gone. There was no way they'd ever see it again. And Dean had addressed him specifically before the attack…so he wasn't seeing it through someone else's eyes as he had in the past. _He_ had attacked Dean…or was _going_ to. But why?

_My God, what does it mean? _

The image of Drew and that hated cabin floated through his mind. No distractions could expel it this time. A glance at the clock told him it was 4 AM.

He had no desire to return to sleep, no desire to see those images again---as he knew he would if he tried.

He stared hard at Dean's back, unwilling to believe that it had been a mere nightmare. His heart pounded in his ears as he rose silently and moved to the room's small table. He switched the laptop on, muting the speakers so that the noise wouldn't wake his blissfully unaware sibling.

He knew he'd have to tell Dean what he'd seen. After Picayune, and the terrible price Dean had paid for Sam's silence after a vision, he couldn't risk _not_ telling him. Besides, he'd sworn to his brother that when it came to these visions, he'd be open about it and not internalize it all as much.

But, what was the connection between his apparent attack on Dean…and Drew and that vampire nest? Another glance confirmed that Dean was still asleep. He turned back and stared at the laptop's glowing screen…then started surfing the internet aimlessly, not knowing what he was even looking for. Almost unconsciously, he typed in a name to search for.

Drew Cunningham.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the enthusiastic responses to chapter one. I'm glad this series still entertains people. _

_Special thanks to geminigrl11 for being my beta. Awesome job, as always!_

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 2**

Dean woke to the sound of keys being lightly tapped on a keyboard. He'd woken to this sound enough to know exactly what it was without thinking about it too much. Sam couldn't sleep. He smothered a groan and rolled over.

Sure enough, Sam was sitting at the small table by the window, fingers poised on the laptop's keys. It was obvious that he was trying to be quiet, and despite the futility of the gesture, Dean appreciated it. Sam was nothing if not conscientious. Dean glanced at the clock. 4:30 AM.

_Well, he's a pain in the ass, too, even if he's a _conscientious_ pain in the ass_.

Dean couldn't see what Sam was looking at, only the silhouette of his brother and the computer against the bluish glow of the window. He slid off the bed as silently as he could, and padded over to the table. Sam didn't look up, engrossed in whatever he was doing. Dean landed in the chair opposite Sam's with a sigh.

"A little pre-dawn porn surfing, Sammy?"

Sam looked up, finally noticing Dean's presence. He glanced from Dean to his now-empty bed and back. "Oh, sorry, I was trying to be quiet."

Dean smirked. "That's usually when you make the most noise."

Sam looked sheepish, and turned back to the laptop screen without a retort. That was one of the first signs that something was up.

"Nightmare?" Dean asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

In the gloom, he saw Sam's eyes flick toward him, but his brother said nothing. Alarm bells started going off in Dean's sleep-clouded brain. He leaned forward, placing his arms on the table. "Vision?"

Sam shook his head. "Both, maybe. I'm not really sure. It was a little strange."

Dean rolled his eyes. _Since when are your visions NOT strange?_

"Is that why you're on the computer?" Dean asked, reaching out and turning the laptop toward him before Sam could stop him. A smiling Drew Cunningham---his high school graduation picture, it looked like---stared back at him. He scanned the rest of the page, which turned out to be an obituary.

Dean raised his eyes to Sam, who promptly looked away. "What's this?" he asked, even though it was unnecessary.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know…I just found it. I'm not sure why," he paused, "Dean? Do you think--- How does a guy like that turn into a…I mean, how much of this _kid_ was in that vampire?"

Dean frowned, and rubbed his tired eyes with one hand. "Sam…why are you doing this to yourself?"

Sam dropped his head and stared his hands. Dean knew that any further questioning along that line would get him nowhere, so he backed off.

"Okay. Wanna tell me what your dream was about?"

Sam glanced up at that, clearly hesitant. But Dean had made it clear that he needed to know about any possible visions after the incident in Picayune. Sam couldn't afford to keep quiet about them, and Dean knew that Sam knew that. It had been a painful lesson to learn, for both of them.

"All right. Well, it started out like a regular nightmare…we were in Denver, and I saw myself beating that guy Stimpson up. You pulled me off of him."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean quipped. He didn't enjoy remembering that. Sam had truly frightened him that night.

"Um…okay. Then…the dream shifted and…we're in a motel room---"

"This one?"

"No. Same tacky furniture, but the window was by the door and the bathroom was over there," Sam said, pointing to the empty wall behind his bed.

Dean nodded, "Okay. Go on."

"Anyway," Sam continued, "I was sitting on the bed, in a towel…like I'd taken a shower, and then you came out of the bathroom in a towel---"

"Dude!" Dean interrupted, alarmed at the direction this dream seemed to be heading.

"Not like that!" Sam protested, glaring at him. Dean let out a sigh of relief.

"Anyway, you came out…and, um, I threw you against the wall and held your knife to your throat."

Dean's eyebrows crept up his forehead. _Not what I was expecting_…. "At least you could have waited until I got dressed…."

Sam rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_…I'm holding the knife to your throat and…I look over at this mirror…and it's not me. I mean, it _is_, but it isn't."

"Who is in the mirror?" Dean asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.

"Drew."

Dean blinked. He wasn't sure where to go with that part. He pursed his lips and asked if there was any more. Sam obliged.

"After I looked in the mirror, the setting shifted again and…um…."

Dean felt dread forming inside him. "And?"

"It was the cabin. The one in Ohio…only _you_ were the one strung up this time. And I was…." Sam trailed off and went back to staring at his hands. He was clearly finished talking.

"That can't happen, Sam. That place is gone."

Sam nodded once and muttered something that sounded like "I know," but Dean couldn't be sure. He shook his head. This was probably the oddest vision Sam had had yet. They'd never jumped back to the past before that he could remember. He rested his chin on his hand and watched Sam try to compose himself. Dean would wait until his brother relaxed a little before jumping into any further conversation.

He quickly dismissed the parts of the dream in Denver and Ohio. That had to be just a nightmare. They weren't heading back to either place any time soon, and besides, the cabin was ashes. They couldn't return there if they wanted to. Which they didn't.

That left the motel room. It wasn't much to go on. They stayed in tacky motels all the time. And why would Sam attack him?

"Can you remember anything else?" Dean asked quietly. Sam shook his head.

"No. We spoke to each other, but…I can't remember what we were saying."

Dean waited for a few moments, until it was clear that there was nothing more.

"All right," he said before standing, stretching and heading back to bed.

Sam seemed upset. "What? That's it? You're just going back to bed?"

Dean smothered a yawn. "Well, what do you want me to do? Search for a tacky motel room with a bathroom? That's every room we've ever stayed in, Sam."

He looked at Sam, who was silhouetted against the window. He couldn't see the face, but he could sense the gaping, exasperated look. He could feel the desperate need to _do something_ that radiated off his little brother. Despite what Sam had endured in the past six months, Dean was comforted by the knowledge that his little brother hadn't really changed. There was always that passion to _fix_ everything…the one that was both a strength and a weakness.

One that Dean shared.

"Sam," he sighed, "until we have more to go on, there's nothing we can do. I say we stick to what we know. We've got a hunt just up the road, and we'll deal with anything else when we get to it."

His little brother wasn't easily dissuaded, something else that hadn't changed. "But, after last time…I can't just---"

"I told you that you needed to start telling me about your visions when it meant one of us might get hurt. You did that. I'm satisfied," he yawned again, "and I'm going back to bed." Dean collapsed back onto his bed and pulled the covers up to his chest.

He heard plastic scraping on wood, and cracked an eye open in time to see Sam turning the laptop back around. Dean closed his eyes again and spoke softly.

"The date on that obituary is wrong, Sammy. Drew was dead before we got to Ohio. We never really met the kid in that picture."

Dean didn't wait for an answer, knowing he probably wouldn't get one. He stayed awake long enough to hear the laptop click shut, and the sheets on the other bed rustle quietly, then surrendered to sleep.

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Sam sat against the side of the Impala with his cell phone against his ear, and a contented smile tugging at his mouth. He could see Dean through the diner's window, leaning over the counter and putting the waitress' phone number on his call list when he was supposed to be getting them lunch. Sam shook his head and went back to his conversation.

"_You sound tired_," Sarah said, sounding concerned.

"I'm all right. Just didn't get much sleep last night."

"_Nightmares? Or something else?_"

He could imagine the look on her face. He should know better than to lie to her by now. "It was a vision. I, um...well, it wasn't good. But there isn't much we can do since I don't know when it might happen. Just gotta keep our eyes open."

"_Are you sure there's nothing wrong, Sam? You don't _sound _all right_."

Sam thought about it for a moment, then decided what he should tell her. "No...I just miss you, that's all."

It wasn't a lie, since he missed her _very much_, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

"_Sweet talker… I miss you too_," she paused, "_You think you'll be heading back this way anytime soon?_"

"I hope so. Maybe when we get finished with this hunt. You wouldn't have any time off coming, would you?" he answered, trying not to let himself sound too desperate. He'd been itching to get back to Sarah for weeks, though he'd kept quiet about it to Dean.

It was also a good way to avoid telling her what was really bothering him. He knew she'd understand about the flashbacks, but he'd leaned on her---and Dean---so much during his recovery that he felt guilty piling on anything else. Fortunately, Sarah seemed to embrace the change in topic.

"_One of the nice things about being the boss' daughter is that I get as much time off as I want. Besides, we don't have much happening for the next few weeks. I'm sure we can arrange something_."

"I'd like that---"

"All right, all right, enough with the phone sex Sammy!" Dean called as he exited the diner.

Sam blushed as two women who were passing stopped to stare at him. He smiled back awkwardly, then shot Dean a glare as the shorter man approached. He heard Sarah laugh.

"_Let me guess...Dean?_"

"Yeah." He answered tightly.

"_Well, just remember to bury the body where no one will find it_."

"Oh, don't worry, I've had it all planned out…for years," Sam ground out.

"_I'll let you go. Be careful, Sam_."

"I will. I love you." Sam didn't hesitate to say it, and meant it wholeheartedly, though he did feel odd. It had been a long time since he'd been able to say that so easily to anyone.

She didn't hesitate either. "_I love you, too. Talk to you soon_."

Sam offered his goodbyes, ended the call, then pinned Dean with an outraged glare. Dean paid him no attention, grinning as he approached the car. He placed the bags of food down on the hood and motioned Sam to take one.

Sam obeyed, casting a glance at the diner. "Tell me why we're eating in the car again?"

Dean was already heading for the driver's seat. "Because I saw one of your pool buddies in there as we drove up. I didn't want to explain to some angry biker why you and last night's hustler were traveling together."

Sam glanced at the diner again before gathering his own bag and heading for the passenger side. "Oh. Good call."

Dean glanced at him smugly, and crooked a thumb at his chest. "Older."

Sam rolled his eyes, but refused to take the bait. His elder sibling was in one of _those_ moods. It was best to just keep quiet until it passed. It was easier on his blood pressure.

Dean started the car and pulled out onto the road before digging into his sloppy cheeseburger. Sam warily eyed the grease dripping from his brother's food---and onto his lap---and examined his club sandwich more carefully before trying it. Much to his surprise, it was good.

They ate quietly as they drove. The ride to Truth or Consequences was longer than it seemed. Military installations prevented taking a direct route from Alamogordo. They'd have to travel south about seventy miles to Las Cruces, then take Interstate 25 north another seventy miles. It gave them a lot of time to kill.

The heat would make the elderly car an uncomfortable ride, too. The haywire weather they'd seen defied explanation. March was generally a cool month, if not a _cold_ one, but the temperatures had been fluctuating wildly this year, and half the time, they never knew how to dress when leaving a motel room. New Mexico's drier weather was proving no less crazy.

_Screwy ass weather_….

Sam smiled around a bite of his sandwich. "You can say that again."

"What?"

Sam paused to explain before taking another bite. He didn't look up from his lunch. "You said the weather was screwy."

He saw Dean stiffen in his peripheral vision, and glanced up to see his brother staring at him. He frowned. "What?"

Dean looked like he'd seen a ghost, or like Sam had threatened to force him to listen to disco. "Dude…I didn't say anything."

Sam frowned. "Oh. I thought you did. Sorry."

He was about to go back to his food when he noticed that Dean was still glancing at him warily. "What?"

"Sam…I didn't say anything. But, I was thinking it. I was thinking that this weather we've been having is screwy. And you answered me."

A crease formed in Sam's brow, but he shrugged. "Huh. That's weird. Guess we were both thinking the same thing."

Dean didn't look convinced. Sam laughed nervously, "Dude. It's just a coincidence. It happens. Why is it bothering you?"

He couldn't quite explain why he was so relieved when a smirk formed on his sibling's face. "Eh, yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm just tired. A certain Sammy kept me up half the night."

Sam rolled his eyes and finished off his sandwich. He was certain that they were just being stupid, but something kept him from dismissing the incident completely. Watching the desert race by outside his window, he kept replaying the last few minutes in his mind. He couldn't pin down what was so troubling about it.

Dean's voice broke into his thoughts, "How's Sarah?"

Sam turned to him, a smile breaking out onto his face, but Dean spoke again before he could say anything.

"Yeah, I thought so."

"You 'thought' what?" Sam asked, confused.

"Every time I mention her name, you get this stupid smile on your face," Dean pointed, "yeah, that one. Right there!"

Sam struggled to straighten his face. It didn't work. "Dean---"

"Sammy's in _love_…" Dean sing-songed, a shit-eating grin forming.

"I am not!" Sam scowled. He was pretty sure it was unconvincing. _Hell, _I_ know I'm lying; he has to know too…._

"You got it _so_ bad…."

"Shut up!" Sam really despised the blush that was forming on his face.

"Tell me I'm right and I will," Dean shot back.

Sam folded his arms over his chest and stared out the window. "Jerk."

He was treated to several minutes of Dean's laughing, and generally being an ass, which he pretended to ignore completely. Sam remained in position, staring at the scenery, until Dean sobered. He felt like he spent his whole life waiting out Dean's Jerk-attacks. It was irritating and strangely comforting all at the same time.

"Find out anything about the case?"

Grateful for the change in conversation, Sam's frown eased and he reached back to grab the laptop from the backseat. "Yeah, I went online while you were in the shower this morning, and it turns out that this manwasn't the first one to die like that."

That caught Dean's interest. Sam kept going.

"About ten months ago, there was a string of mysterious deaths within just a few weeks. Six people, men and women, found with a few lacerations, otherwise unharmed, but they were all dead. One of the coroners said it was like the life had been drained right out of them."

Dean grunted at that. "Hmm. If it weren't for the cuts, I guess a reaper."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "but reapers don't have to physically hurt people to kill them."

"Don't remind me. Were there any suspects?" Dean asked.

"The cops only had one, Anthony Stuart. He was a local kid, about twenty-one. Worked as an electrician with his dad. His dad was the first victim."

Dean frowned, "The cops think he killed his dad?"

_Sam! You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart!_

_Don't you do it, Sam. Don't you do it._

Sam jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, it was Dean. "Sammy? You okay? You zoned out on me for a second."

"Oh, sorry," Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the memory away, "I'm sorry, I guess I'm more tired than I thought. What were you saying?"

Dean eyed him for a moment before answering. "I asked if the cops thought that this Stuart guy killed his dad."

Sam nodded, chastising himself. _Get back to business_. "Yeah. He was the last person to see his dad before he died, and he didn't have an alibi. But, the police could never prove it. There was no evidence left at the scene that tied the death to Stuart."

"What about the others?"

"That's the thing, Stuart was seen in the vicinity of almost all the victims before they disappeared. In each case, the pattern was the same. People would disappear out of their homes, or cars, then turn up somewhere with the life..._drained _out of them. A few of them, like the dad, showed signs of torture."

Dean pursed his lips. "Could be a disgruntled kid. We need to look him up and see how he was doing it. _If _he was."

"That's gonna be harder than you think...he's dead."

Dean glanced over at him. "I thought you said the cops couldn't pin it on him?"

"They couldn't. He was arrested after the last victim. Every one of them was tied to him in some way...his dad, neighbor, high school friends, and his ex-girlfriend."

"How did the cops _not _nail this guy?!" Dean exclaimed.

"They said there was never any direct evidence that he was responsible. Everything was circumstantial, and he claimed it was someone out to get him." Sam explained, "The D.A. dropped all the charges since he couldn't make his case."

"So what happened?"

"The ex-girlfriend had gotten married," Sam flipped through some printouts, "Her husband, uh…Ryan Lassiter, was convinced that Stuart did it, and when he was released, the husband shot him in the courthouse parking lot. Stuart died before the paramedics got there."

"Geez," Dean sighed, "sounds like Tombstone or something."

"Tombstone's in Arizona," Sam intoned patiently, as if correcting a wayward student. The dig got under Dean's skin, as always. Sam smothered a laugh and chose to ignore the obscene suggestion his brother made in return.

Dean bitched for a while before coming back to the matter at hand. "So, if all that happened last year, and Stuart is a doornail, what's going on now?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugged, "Maybe Stuart wasn't the killer after all. He did claim someone was after him."

"And killing people close to him? Seems kinda convenient, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Sam replied quietly. Thoughts of Jess and his mother sprang unbidden to his mind. It wasn't so hard to believe that something could be after Stuart. It happened.

Dean seemed to read his mind, and waved his hand dismissively. "Don't go there, Sammy. It's not the same. This sounds like your run-of-the-mill psycho-killer if you ask me."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, maybe. It did seem odd that he would murder his dad but not his mom. Awfully _selective_. Maybe something was going on that wasn't public knowledge."

_Like Max Miller_... Sam added grimly to himself. A parent abusing his own child was something Sam could never understand. John Winchester had been many things, and he and Sam had butted heads more times than he could even remember, but he could count on one hand the number of times his Dad had lifted a hand to him or Dean in anger.

Quiet descended on the car, and Sam knew Dean was thinking along the same lines. They rode in silence until the signs for Las Cruces started appearing along the road.

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The trip North along I-25 seemed to last even longer than the first leg of the journey. The depressing mood that had descended over them while discussing Anthony Stuart had finally lifted, which pleased Dean to no end. Unfortunately, Sam had dozed off with his head against the window just as they cleared Las Cruces, leaving Dean both bored and alone with his thoughts.

The discussion of Stuart's possible motives had conjured thoughts of Dad, and that was a raw topic for both of them, particularly Sam. They'd survived almost four months on denial and the _very_ infrequent venting session. It worked for them...mostly.

But they both knew that it was a thinly-healed scar at best. They tried not to talk about it if they didn't have to. Hell, it had taken Dean more than two months just to pick up the journal again…and then only because Sam had been in mortal danger.

With Sam out of commission for the time being, Dean spent the second leg of the trip planning out their first stops. There wasn't much else to do, besides listen to his Black Sabbath tape compete with Sam's soft snoring. Neither sound helped to keep Dean awake as the rather boring scenery rushed by, so he started working out the details of the hunt.

Of course, he would have preferred Sam's help with that. But, he'd have to make do.

First and foremost was a motel, as usual. Once they dropped off their bags and weapons, Dean figured they'd check out the victim at the morgue and the local PD. _Straightforward enough_.

Sam stirred a little in his seat, a crease forming on his brow. Dean hoped that it was simply discomfort from being cooped up, and not another nightmare. Sam had had enough of those for one lifetime.

His kid brother's latest vision-dream was disturbing. Dean couldn't believe that Sam would attack him with his own knife, not without some kind of outside influence. He pushed aside memories of the Roosevelt Asylum. _That was different_.

On the other hand, in light of Sam's recent flashbacks and the barely controllable rage that overcame him when he experienced them, maybe he _could_ believe it. Sam had almost lost control in the bar the night before. What if he couldn't pull himself back the next time?

_But still, why attack me?_ The incident in the bar had begun with Sam just getting carried away with his role, and he'd stopped himself before anything happened. Dean could see no reason for a repeat performance.

He was missing something.

The worst part of it all was that there was really nothing that he could do. Sam was going to have to work through these attacks on his own. Dean could offer support, but in the end it was Sam's mind that was traumatized, not his.

_Maybe we could swing back through Ohio and see if Sam's doctor would prescribe some anti-anxiety meds_. She'd seemed the compassionate type. It was definitely worth pursuing. That was, if Dean could get Sam anywhere near that area of the country again….

His phone vibrated. Digging it out of his pocket, he checked the number, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He flipped it open.

"Hey."

"_Hi, Dean. Can you talk?_" It was Sarah.

Dean cast a wary eye at his still slumbering brother before answering quietly. "Yeah, I think so. He's asleep. What's up?"

"_Is he okay? He said he had a vision last night, and it was pretty bad…but it sounded like there was more. I'm worried about him_."

Dean smiled to himself. Sarah Blake was tenacious. She was perfect for Sammy. "Well…I'm not sure what he told you---"

"_Not much of anything. That's why I called you_," she cut in, "_I know him well enough to know when he's hiding something big_."

Dean's smile became a frown. "He's, uh…he's been having flashbacks."

She paused, probably taking that in. "_Well, we knew it wouldn't go away overnight_."

"Yeah, I know. But now…he just gets so angry. And he's been seeing Drew. Somebody matches the description even a little, and he's ready to kill them. Hell, last night he almost took a swing at _me_."

He intentionally left out the incident in Denver. That was Sam's decision, not his. He couldn't betray Sam's confidence…even for Sam's own good. He told Sarah enough without telling her everything.

"_Is he alright? I mean…he's not getting _worse_ is he?_" Sarah asked. Her concern was obvious even over the phone. Unfortunately, Dean had no real answers for her.

"I don't know. I really don't."

"_Well_," she replied, "_if_ _there's anything I can help you with_…."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks."

"_I'll check back soon, okay? Bye, Dean_."

"Bye," Dean said quietly. He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He jumped with Sam spoke.

"You shouldn't have told her. I didn't want her to worry."

Startled, Dean looked over at him. Sam was still poised against the window, eyes closed, with the crease between his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry---"

Sam shook his head, still not opening his eyes. "I'm not mad."

Dean relaxed a little. He didn't like trampling on his brother's wishes, but sometimes concern trumped manners. "She's already worried about you, Sam. She knew you were holding something back."

A smile bent Sam's mouth. "She's annoying that way."

They rode in silence for a few miles before Sam opened his eyes and spoke again.

"Why didn't you tell her about Denver?"

Dean shook his head slowly. "Not my place."

Sam finally looked over. "It kinda is."

Dean smiled. "I'm no snitch. Would you have been mad if I had told her?"

His sibling considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably."

"Well, that's why I didn't. You're gonna have to tell her yourself."

"That'll be a fun conversation," Sam grumbled, turning back to look out the window.

Dean frowned. "She wouldn't have called if she didn't care. Hell, she wouldn't put up with you if she were easily disappointed."

"Thanks," Sam retorted, mocking offense. Dean smirked.

"Anytime."

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Dean tried to push all their problems out of his mind. Instead, all he ended up doing was focusing more on them. He squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter, venting his frustration silently and subtly. He didn't need Sam thinking that he was worried.

It seemed like every time they got ahead, something came crashing down around them. They finally find the Colt, and a way to kill the demon…and Dad has to die in order to kill it. They get on the road again, trying to find some equilibrium, then Sam gets kidnapped by those fucking vampires. They get past that, and then Sam's telekinesis flairs up. They start dealing with that, and Sam's flashbacks return with a vengeance.

_When the hell are we gonna catch a break?_

His musings were interrupted by the sound of Sam softly clearing his throat. _Great, he's got that tone, what now?_

"Um, Dean?"

"Hmm?" _Keep the poker face. Maybe he has good news. Yeah, right_.

"I was, uh…I was wondering. When we finish this hunt--- I mean, after this…you think we can take some time off?"

Dean blinked, caught off guard by the randomness of the question. "What do you mean?"

"Just…well, I mean--- I just want to---"

Then it hit Dean. It was suddenly perfectly obvious. He glanced over at Sam, who was still trying to form a coherent sentence that would both make his request and preserve his dignity. Dean let him off easy.

"Sam, you don't have to beg to see her. We can set something up…either we head out East or she can come out here, okay?"

"Really?" Sam asked, almost sounding astonished.

"Yeah."

"You're not mad or anything?" Sam sounded like a teenager again.

"Why would I be?"

"Well…thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not like we're in the Army or anything. All you had to do was ask."

Sam glanced at him, and Dean could practically feel the relief radiating off of him. He kept his eyes on the road. Actually, it was a pretty good idea. Maybe Sarah could help them through these flashbacks like she did the last time. He noticed a smirk forming on the younger man's face.

"Getting soft in your old age, Dean…."

"Eh, go fuck yourself, Sammy," he replied, without heat, "or better yet---"

"Don't say it, Dean."

Dean huffed. "Well, we're getting separate rooms if she comes out here. Especially after last time."

Sam protested. "What? Why? We didn't---"

"Please! From your bed to my ears! _Ugh_…" Dean exclaimed with a disgusted shudder.

Sam scowled. "Shut up."

But, Dean noticed the little smirk that formed when Sam thought he wasn't looking.

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_Truth or Consequences, NM_

They found a motel just off the Interstate, and Dean pulled off the highway. There were only three cars in the lot, and they probably belonged to employees. He sent Sam into the lobby, and waited. A few moments later, Sam poked his head out the glass door and mouthed "33."

Dean pulled the car out and headed down the parking lot. Room 33 was near the end of the building, just as they preferred. _Away from prying eyes_. He placed the Impala in park and gathered his duffle bag.

By the time he'd retrieved their weapons bag from the trunk, Sam had appeared, moving down the walk beneath the building's overhang. He met his younger brother at the door.

Sam stuck the key card in the door mechanism and let Dean enter first. Dean surveyed the room quickly before stepping in and dropping his bags on the closest bed. _Tacky place_. Old television on the dresser, dark curtains on the windows, ugly-as-shit wallpaper, and small bathroom door by the far bed. _Nothing new here_.

He started unzipping his bag, when he realized that Sam hadn't left the doorway. He glanced back, and saw his brother frozen in place, with one white-knuckled hand on the door knob.

"Sam? What is it?"

Sam paled visibly while Dean was looking at him. "Dean…."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Dean…this is the room."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Special thanks to Faye Dartmouth for being my "Third Chapter Beta," she's my new good luck charm! _

_As always, thanks also to geminigrl11 for her help!_

_I feel it necessary to remind…for any new readers: in this AU, Sam last saw his father in that shack, where he killed him with the Colt. The demon died with John._

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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"_Dean…this is the room."_

**Chapter 3**

Dean just blinked in confusion for a moment before the dots connected. "From the vision?"

Sam nodded. He looked numb. Dean glanced around the room. He pointed to the bathroom door. "So…that's where, uh…?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He sounded like he was choking.

Dean frowned and stepped over to the younger man's side, taking him by the arm and leading him all the way into the room. Sam didn't lower his duffle bag, and just stood rigidly by the bed as if afraid to move. Dean couldn't exactly blame him given the circumstances.

"Sammy, look," Dean said, walking around in front of his sibling, "we still don't know what that dream was all about. Maybe you're gonna have another flashback. If that's it, then we can be careful and try to keep it from happening. You didn't actually see what happened after you grabbed me, right?"

"No, but---"

"Well, maybe that's all there is to it. You've been worried about these anger-attacks…and maybe for once your visions kinda went along with what you were thinking about," Dean paused, then put on a smile that suggested a confidence that he didn't quite feel, "hey, maybe this is a good sign. You're controlling it."

"I don't think so, Dean. It doesn't feel right."

Dean frowned, his confident mask slipping a little. "Okay. I'll tell you what...if there's any sign that you're having another flashback, or that something is _really_ wrong, we'll switch motels. Get a different room, and we change the vision, right?"

Sam just stared for a moment, then shrugged. Dean took his victories where he could get them. "Hey, Sammy…we're already changing the vision, you know? Now I'm on the lookout for any weird shit. That means we're ahead of the game for once."

His reassurance finally seemed to sink in, and Sam nodded once, letting his shoulders slump a little as he visibly relaxed. Dean smiled to himself as he resumed unpacking. _Mission accomplished_.

He heard Sam take a few deep breaths behind him, then step over to the other bed and open his bag. His little brother wasn't the easiest man to reassure. In fact, it got harder as they got older and saw more. But, for now, his "big brother's in control" routine still held a lot of influence over Sam, and sometimes, that was the only weapon Dean had to fight off Sam's doubts.

He just hoped to hell that he was right.

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Dean hit the local police department after dropping Sam off at the morgue to take a look at the victim they'd read about in the paper. It didn't take long to convince Sherry, the officer on duty at the small station, that he was a private eye looking into Anthony Stuart's situation on behalf of a distant relative.

It was really too easy sometimes. A million-watt smile, a sympathetic story, and a boatload of well-practiced flirting were all it took. Fifteen minutes and he was walking out of the police station with an armful of copies and file folders.

Dean folded up the post-it that Sherry had written her number on, and slipped it into his wallet. He'd put it in his phone later. He'd already made a date with her---well, "Derek Wheeler" had a date, to discuss the case, of course---for the evening after next.

He hated that name. Sam had picked it out, which he had no problem with, but it was lame. It was just a different name with his initials. That was too easy. The kid had no appreciation for the art of picking an alias. _Why couldn't he pick a cool one...like Kris Warren, or Nigel Tufnel, or Nigel Warren if he wanted to mix it up_?

Dean shook his head. _Little brothers_..._no respect for the classics_. He hadn't let Sam make a fake I.D. since.

Sherry couldn't give him much. The D.A.'s office still had most of the paperwork on the case, even ten months later. She did provide some files on the latest mysterious death---_for comparison, the Wheeler Agency is very thorough_---which he opened as soon as he got back to the car.

He scanned the first few pages, and froze when he saw the victim's name. He fished around for his phone, and was about to dial when it rang. It was Sam.

"Hey."

"_Dean, the guy they found, you'll never guess who it is_."

"Ryan Lassiter?"

"_How'd you know_?" Sam sounded vaguely disappointed.

"I'm psychic," Dean deadpanned.

He could imagine Sam's scowl in his mind's eye. "_You're hilarious_."

"Didn't I see a coffee shop near the coroner's office?" Dean asked.

"_Um...yeah. I can see it from here_."

"Good, I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

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"So, the guy who offs Stuart is the first victim of round two, eh?" Dean twisted his coffee cup so that the contents swirled near the bottom, and waited for Sam to come to the same conclusion he had. It didn't take long.

"Yeah, sounds like a vengeful spirit. Stuart's back and he's killing people the same way he did before."

"Draining the life out of them," Dean replied. It wasn't a question.

"Looks like," Sam nodded, "the coroner said Lassiter vanished from a county work detail a few days ago."

Dean opened the police file he'd borrowed from Sherry. "He was still serving his sentence for killing Stuart. The county jail takes prisoners out to clean roadsides and stuff every week. This was Lassiter's first trip out. Um, and last I guess."

Sam took the file and started reading. "Where were they working?"

"Other side of town, near a cemetery," Dean said, taking a gulp from his coffee.

Sam looked up. "Cemetery?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Sam put the file aside and grabbed the newspaper article that had led them here. "'Local cemetery worker George McDowell' was seen near the scene…."

"Maybe he's possessed. Stuart's not a demon---well, that we know of---but ghosts can possess people too if they're strong enough."

Sam set the paper down. "The thing is: _how_ is he killing people? Or, I guess, how _was _he doing it?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. We can question the people who knew him. Maybe they can tell us."

"Trail's gonna be pretty cold," Sam countered, "the last murders were almost a year ago, and Stuart's been dead almost as long."

"Still a good place to start."

Sam frowned. "What about George McDowell?"

"Oh, I think we can swing by the cemetery first. If he _is_ possessed, then we'll know for sure."

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The trip out to the---rather remote---cemetery was a dead end. McDowell worked only at night, and the only groundskeeper on duty during the day didn't know where he lived. The phone number was unlisted, and no one they'd seen---besides the other groundskeeper---knew him beyond his mention in the paper. Dean tried to contact Sherry at the police station, but her cell phone was turned off.

Frustrated, they decided to start interviewing family members. Maybe they'd find a lead there. Returning to the car, Dean inserted the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it.

"So, Ryan Lassiter disappears from a work gang, and three days after that, he shows up dead not far from where he vanished. That sound about right so far?" Dean queried, eyeing one of the few buildings on the premises.

Sam looked over at him. He recognized Dean's tone as the one he used when he was trying to solve mysteries. "Yeah, right over there in that storage building. You still thinking McDowell is possessed by Stuart?"

"I think so."

"But, didn't you say that was unusual? For a spirit to possess someone?" Sam asked.

"Well, Dad's journal mentions it, but says it doesn't happen very often. The spirit has to be really powerful to possess someone as effectively as a demon."

Sam considered that. They'd encountered some pretty powerful spirits before...but none of them had possessed anyone. Well...not _strictly _speaking. The spirits they'd faced in Picayune were ferocious...but even they hadn't been capable of human possession. They'd hunted some, like Ellicott the year before, who were strong enough to temporarily control minds or influence people, but not like this.

An idea struck. "What if he was a psychic?"

Dean looked over at him. "You mean when he was alive?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, if he had a powerful mental ability, like, say…Missouri, and add to that a violent death...maybe the combination was enough to create a spirit that could completely possess people and control their actions."

Dean nodded slowly, obviously thinking the possibility over. "All right, so let's check up on Stuart...see what kind of guy he was."

Checking his notes, Sam found the name they needed. "Anthony's mother is his last remaining relative. Um...name's Martha, lives across town. 113 Turtle View."

Dean started the car, then paused, frowning. "His mom's name is Martha Stuart?"

Sam grinned. "It's spelled differently."

"Well, maybe she's a good cook like the real one, I'm getting kinda hungry."

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean's stomach seemed to lead these hunts more than either of his brains….

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Anthony's mother lived in a two-story brick house surrounded by a fenced-in yard and two small cactus gardens. Not exactly the home of a serial killer._ But, then again_, Sam thought, _how often did homes ever resemble their residents?_

Sam knocked, glancing warily at Dean. A few moments passed before Mrs. Stuart opened the door.

"May I help you?"

Sam put on his most sympathetic smile. "Mrs. Stuart, you don't know me, but I was friends with your son, Anthony. We just wanted to pay our respects."

Her apprehensive expression faded to a sad one. "Oh...well, thank you, Mister---?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, my name is Sam. This is my brother Dean. I've been away at school, so I didn't have a chance to come by sooner. I actually just heard what happened to him from a mutual friend a few days ago."

"Ah. Well, come in, please."

They followed her into the nicely furnished house. She led them to the sofa and offered them coffee, which they accepted. Dean nudged him as soon as she left the room and smiled.

"Smooth. See if she's got anything to eat."

"What? Why?" Sam whispered back.

Dean gave him a 'duh' look. "Because I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry!"

Mrs. Stuart entered the room carrying a tray of coffee mugs. Sam took his, breathing in sharply as the hot mug touched his fingers. He set it down and shook his hand to relieve the sting. Mrs. Stuart spoke before he could say anything.

"After everything that happened…I thought all of his friends believed he was guilty."

"Well…frankly, Mrs. Stuart, the whole story seems…um, hard to believe. I didn't know what to think. I was hoping coming here today might set the record straight."

"The last few months of his life were so hard…" she looked up, suddenly curious, "when was the last time you saw him, Sam?"

"Few days after Graduation. We, uh…kinda lost touch when I went away," Sam admitted, a touch of regret entering his voice. He reached for the coffee mug.

_Damn, he's good…._

Sam jumped slightly, glancing over at Dean in alarm. It was Dean's voice in his head again. _Christ, now's not the time for a flashback_, he thought grimly.

"Are you okay?" Mrs. Stuart asked, wide-eyed.

Sam covered fast, "Yeah…sorry…the mug's a little hot is all…."

"Oh," she nodded, an understanding smile gracing her features.

"You said the last few months were hard…what did you mean?" Sam asked, trying to get the conversation back on track. Whatever he'd heard would have to wait.

"Yes, well…a little over a year ago, Anthony started having migraines. The doctor's couldn't find anything wrong, so they just prescribed some painkillers. I know it had to be more than just headaches, though, because he was having nightmares, too. He changed after they started."

"Do you think it was maybe because of his dad?" Dean chimed in. At her questioning look, he added, "Our friend, he mentioned that your husband died a while before Anthony."

She seemed to accept the explanation, but shook her head to the question. "Oh, no, no. His father died only a few weeks before Anthony was shot. The migraines started, oh…before Christmas, almost six months before that."

"Six months?" Sam asked, doing the math in his head, "November of '05…."

"Yes, that sounds about right. Oh, it was so hard. It seemed all Anthony and his father did was fight…right up until the end."

_You walked away, Sam! You walked away!_

_You're the one who said don't come back, Dad! You closed that door not me!_

_Sammy! It's still alive. It's inside me, I can feel it._

"Sam?"

He blinked at Mrs. Stuart, trying to find his bearings. He recovered as quickly as he could. "Sorry…I, um…we lost our Dad not long ago. I know it must have been hard."

He watched Mrs. Stuart nod in sympathy, and tried to ignore the feeling of Dean's eyes on him. Dean had obviously seen his slip. "If I may ask…why didn't they get along?"

She sighed, "My husband was very old fashioned. He believed that a son should follow in his father's footsteps. He was an electrician, and he forced Anthony to join the family business. Well…Anthony couldn't have been more miserable. He wanted to go to school, wanted to be an artist. His father just couldn't understand that. I tried to talk to him, but he never let me get close."

"Get close?" Dean asked, sounding surprised, "you were his mom…."

"Stepmother," she corrected, "I came into the picture after Anthony's tenth birthday. His real mother died in a house fire when he was a baby. He never said anything, but I don't think he ever learned to trust me."

Sam's eyes cut to Dean at the mention of a fire. Dean met his stare briefly, but kept his poker face intact. Sam reluctantly turned back to Mrs. Stuart. She looked wistful for a moment, then pulled herself together.

"It only got worse when his girlfriend broke up with him. She was involved with one of Anthony's friends…."

"Ryan?" Sam guessed. _Betrayal on top of everything…not a good combination_.

Mrs. Stuart nodded. "Yes, I guess you knew him too," when Sam nodded, she continued, "Anthony just shut us all out after that. He stayed in his room drawing. He argued with his father any time he had to work. It wasn't---"

She broke off, dabbing a tear from her eye with a tissue. When she spoke again, she changed the subject. "Anthony was a great artist; he'd been drawing since he was six. Did he ever show you any of his work?"

Sam hesitated only a moment, seeing the opportunity for finding another clue even as Dean kicked him with his foot beneath the coffee table. "He talked about it a lot…but, no, he never showed me."

"Would you like to see? He really was very good."

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Anthony's room looked as though it hadn't changed much in years. Posters and books from the late-nineties, a scattering of toys, a large music collection---some of which even met with Dean's approval---and his own artwork adorned the dressers, shelves and desk.

"I've kept it exactly as it was when he…well…. He always hated for me to clean his room, so I haven't touched it," Mrs. Stuart explained as they entered. She looked around for a moment, then spotted a large sketchbook at the corner of the desk. She offered it to Sam.

He opened it, flipping through the pages. "Wow. These are really good…."

Dean looked up from where he was inspecting Anthony's CD collection. "Mrs. Stuart? I know it's awkward, but could you tell us where Anthony was buried? So we can pay our respects."

She smiled. "That'd be sweet of you. He's in Vista Memory Gardens. The new location is quite nice, back away from the road."

Sam's ears perked up at that. It was the same cemetery where McDowell worked and where Ryan was found. He looked up and listened more closely. He saw Dean's eyes light up when he replied. "The new place?"

"Yes. They had to move Anthony…some kind of county regulation or ordnance. They just finished the move last week."

Sam watched Dean offer her an understanding smile. The phone started ringing downstairs. Mrs. Stuart excused herself, leaving them alone in the room. Dean spoke as soon as she was out of earshot.

"So, Anthony dies a violent death, and ten months later, his coffin is moved from one side of the cemetery to the other. And I'd bet George McDowell was one of the workers who moved him. There's our possession."

Sam nodded it all made sense. Dean spoke again as Sam turned a page in the book. He froze, no longer listening to what Dean was saying.

_You wanna know why? Because they got in the way._

_In the way of what?  
_

_Of my plans for you…and all the children like you._

_Kill me, you kill Daddy…_

_I know._

It took Sam a moment to shake himself from the memory of the last time he'd seen his father. When he had, he had to drag his eyes off the last picture in the sketchpad and look up at Dean, who was staring at him expectantly. He wasn't sure what he'd missed in the conversation, but it didn't really matter, now.

"Well, we know for sure he was a psychic, too," he said slowly.

"How's that? You find something?" Dean asked, curious.

Sam ticked off the facts on one hand. "There was a house fire that claimed his mother. He started getting migraines before Christmas in 2005. He was having nightmares. He was unhappy with his family and friends. And then there's this…."

He turned the book over so that Dean could see it.

"Whoa…." Dean breathed, his poker face slipping for the first time since entering the house. Sam turned the book back and looked at the picture again.

The silhouette of a man, all in black, standing over a baby's crib adorned the final page of the pad. The man's yellow eyes were the only light source in the picture. Scrawled along the bottom of the page was a word written in what appeared to be real blood. "MASTER."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_I've been hearing about Dean's decision to stay in the room. All I'll say is…we all second-guess ourselves. And it's usually a bad thing. Plus, it's true to Dean's character. LOL!_

_Special thanks to geminigrl11 for being an awesome beta, as always. _

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 4**

_The yellow eyes taunted him._

_"You kill me…you kill Daddy."_

_"I know." He dipped the Colt down and shot his father in the right leg. Energy crackled and fizzled around the older man's body, and he dropped to the floor. _

_Sam couldn't wait to see if the demon was dead or not. He had to get to Dean. He half-walked, half-crawled over to the wall where his brother lay crumpled and helpless. _

_"Hey…Dean. Oh, God. You've lost a lot of blood…."_

_His brother was too selfless for his own good. Even half-dead, Dean put his family first. "Where's Dad?"_

_"He's right here, Dean…he's right here."_

_"Go check on him."_

_Sam tried to refuse---after all, Dean was the one in trouble---but his brother wouldn't listen. He climbed back to his feet, grabbed the Colt, and moved hesitantly back to where his father lay moaning._

_Sam leaned over, trying to get the elder Winchester's attention. He almost left the floor when John screamed his name._

_"Sammy! It's still alive…it's inside me, I can feel it. You shoot me…you shoot me; you shoot me in the heart, son! Do it, now!"_

_Almost immediately he heard Dean's pained whisper. "Don't you do it, Sam."_

_Everyone was talking at once. His dad begged him to finish the job. His brother begged him not to. In the end, the demon made the choice for them._

_John's eyes faded back to yellow and the almost glowing gaze seemed to pierce Sam's soul. Then it shifted to Dean, and Sam knew in that instant---he _knew_---that it was going to finish the job. Dean was going to die._

_For the first time since this nightmare had started…maybe for the first time ever…he didn't hesitate; he raised the gun as soon as the Demon's leering, venomous gaze landed on his wounded brother and squeezed the trigger. The last of Samuel Colt's bullets tore into his father's chest, and an unearthly scream filled the small shack. _

_The demon was dead._

_Some part of Sam---part of all of them---died with it._

"Sammy? Hey, Sam…we're here, man."

Sam jumped slightly at the sound of Dean's voice. It took a few seconds to remember where he was. The Impala was parked in front of a bar and grill. They'd headed off to grab dinner, at Dean's suggestion, after hastily excusing themselves from Martha Stuart's home.

"Hmm? Sorry, what?" Sam stammered.

Dean stared at him, concern written all over his face, even though he'd never admit to it. "You wanna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I was--- Nothing."

"Sam…."

Sam looked out the window. "I was thinking about Dad…."

Dean frowned, but said nothing, turning instead to stare out the window. Sam knew that they were thinking along the same lines. This case was hitting too close to home.

"I guess we'll be cleaning up the Demon's mess for a while…."

Dean nodded, but didn't look at him. "Probably. At least it's dead. The important thing is we survived."

"Some of us did," Sam muttered, his thoughts returning to the last moments of John Winchester's life. Dean didn't reply.

"I miss him," Sam whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

_Me too._

Sam blinked. It was Dean's voice again. He cast a suspicious glance at his brother, but Dean was still staring out the window. _What the hell is going on?_

He'd written off hearing Dean's voice when he was abducted as a product of fear and a concussion and the pain he'd suffered. His abuse at Drew's hand certainly was enough to scramble his brain. He'd known it had just been his own mind playing tricks on him.

But that had been almost two months ago. He was long recovered from his concussion. Why would he still be hearing his brother's voice in his head?

He shook it off. There'd be time later. They had a job to do here.

"So…what's the plan, Dean?"

Dean looked grateful for the subject change, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of action. "Well, we've got about three hours 'til dark. I say we eat, head out to the cemetery, find Anthony's grave and smoke the bastard, then go meet Sarah somewhere nice."

Sam couldn't help but smile. His brother's plans were always the same. Eat, charge in, victory dance. _It suits him_. He did want to raise an issue though.

"And hope that it stops the possessions?"

Dean shrugged, unconcerned. "It should."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Sam, for one, would be glad to get this hunt over with. It was dredging up memories that he didn't want to think about anymore.

Dean finally broke the silence. "Let's go in. I'm hungry."

Sam laughed, "What else is new?"

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They killed the next few hours in the restaurant before heading out to the cemetery. Vista Gardens was on the western side of I-25, only about ten minutes from their motel, but was still so remote they ran out of pavement before reaching it. They'd seen it that afternoon, and were familiar with the layout, but they were unprepared for how desolate the area looked at night.

They parked the car far enough away from the streetlights to be unnoticeable. A black car against a dark background was excellent camouflage, but they still hurried in case anyone came by. They retrieved two shovels and the weapons bag from the trunk and marched to the rear of the grounds, where Anthony's grave marker stood.

"Man, I'm full…."

"You should be," Sam shot back, "you ate your weight in food back there."

Dean bristled at the sarcasm, "I noticed you didn't eat much at all."

Sam grinned, casting him a wry glance. "Just watching my figure."

Dean scowled, not taking the bait, and trying to think of three good reasons not to leave Sam's smart ass out here in the desert. For a few long minutes, the only one he could think of was "because Missouri will be mad at me."

They reached the burial site, noting the still-fresh dirt. Anthony's coffin had only been moved the week before, and it hadn't rained much, so the dirt wouldn't be too hard to move.

It took them about an hour to shovel half the dirt out. Apparently, whoever had moved the body had dug a little deeper than the traditional six feet. After reaching the halfway point, they took shifts, with the unoccupied brother keeping an eye out for passing cars and nocturnal predators. Being in the middle of a desert had its advantages. No one disturbed them.

While Dean dug, Sam sat on the edge of hole, keeping one eye on the road and one on his Dad's journal. He'd scanned about three quarters of it, before he found an item of interest. He grunted, turning his attention completely to the book.

"Hmm."

Dean paused in his shoveling, glancing up at him. "Hmm…what?"

Sam tapped the page in the journal. "Dad and Caleb had a case kinda like this one when we were kids."

"Another psychic?" Dean asked, wiping sweat from his brow. The rather cool night air, added to his perspiration, gave him a chill.

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't look like they ever knew for sure. They tracked down a guy who was sucking the life out of people. They thought he might be some mutant shapeshifter or vampire, but couldn't tell either way."

"They find anything useful to us?" Dean asked, his growing fatigue giving his words an edge he didn't intend. If Sam noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Besides a name for it? No. Caleb called it a 'psi-vamp.' It had a regular feeding cycle, about once a week, and grew weaker the longer it went without feeding."

Dean stopped shoveling again, panting. "How long between Anthony's victims?"

"Six victims, about five weeks."

Dean smirked. "Maybe he got hungry towards the end. What about the signs of torture?"

Sam nodded, "Yep. Caleb thought that maybe the thing fed off negative emotions…pain, grief, fear. The torture part probably generated a lot of that."

Dean blinked, looking back up at Sam. His little brother's voice had gone oddly flat during that analysis, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if Sam was thinking about an entirely different torture victim than the ones in the journal. He tried to steer the conversation back to their case, and away from Sam's past, just in case.

"So, you think Anthony was the same kind of psychic mooch?" Dean asked, gasping a little. _Maybe I shouldn't have eaten so much before digging a grave_…_or is that a swimming rule?_

Sam finally looked at him and frowned. "Yeah, maybe. Here…."

Sam extended his hand, indicating that it was his turn. Dean didn't argue, propping the shovel on the sides of the hole, and climbing out. Sam eyed him critically before sliding into the grave.

"Told you…you ate too much, Dean." The snide "I told you so" was evident in Sam's tone.

"Ah, shut up, Sammy," Dean griped. He didn't argue beyond that, easing himself down onto the dirt with a huff and taking up watch. He resumed the train of thought they'd been on. "So, you think this kid Anthony was like Max Miller? Unhappy kid, just happens to be psychic, and the demon makes him go evil?"

"Probably through his nightmares," Sam replied, not pausing the dig, "his mom said he changed a lot toward the end."

Dean sighed, "Yeah, I'll bet--- Uh, oh."

Sam stopped and looked up. "What?"

Dean crouched down, trying to stay out of sight amongst the tombstones. "Company. Over by that work shed. I think we just found our possessed gravedigger."

On the other end of the cemetery, a middle-aged black man in coveralls was approaching the work shed where Ryan Lassiter's body had been found. Lights could be seen as he opened the door and stepped inside.

Sam joined him up on the carefully maintained grass by the grave. "George McDowell, I bet."

They armed themselves, but Dean hoped that they wouldn't need the guns. McDowell was possessed, but still human. Sam pocketed a flask of holy water, shrugging when Dean stared at him.

"You never know."

They headed toward the shed, keeping low behind the taller tombstones, and racing between the gaps in the rows. They ran out of stones to stay behind as they neared the building, and dashed the rest of the way. They crouched beneath one window. Dean carefully peaked in.

McDowell leaned over a young girl, not much older than twenty in Dean's estimation, pressing one hand to her forehead and the other to her chest, over the heart. _Chakra points_, Dean realized. The areas of the body generally considered centers of energy.

The girl moaned weakly, and Dean guessed this wasn't the first time she'd been attacked like this. Judging by her pallor and shallow breathing, he feared it might be the last. He signaled Sam to follow him in, waited for the acknowledgement, then quickly moved to the door. One powerful kick and it was open.

Dean raced in, trusting his brother to be on his heals. McDowell---or Anthony, he supposed---was taken completely by surprise. Dean didn't waste it. Without slowing, he switched his gun to his left hand and plowed his right fist into McDowell's jaw, sending the older man flying backwards. He landed in a heap a few feet away.

Sam moved forward, gun in one hand, holy water in the other, to cover him, while Dean stepped in to untie the girl. Her head rolled to the side limply. Frowning, Dean reached out and felt for her pulse, then squeezed his eyes shut.

"Another of Anthony's old friends, probably….she's gone," he said grimly.

It all happened so fast.

Sam looked over, a mix of surprise and defeat clouding his expression at Dean's pronouncement of the girl's death. He lowered his gun, away from the still unmoving McDowell, and began to turn toward the girl. Dean didn't have time to issue a warning.

McDowell jumped to his feet and charged. To his credit, Sam managed to fling a stream of holy water at his advancing attacker, but, as Dean had feared, it didn't work. This possession wasn't demonic in origin.

The possessed man hit Sam hard, sending them sprawling, McDowell's hands around Sam's throat. Sam's head struck the concrete wall of the shed with a loud thump. Even as he moved to intercede, Dean heard the man speak.

"Fascinating…."

Dean didn't bother to wonder what the man found so interesting; he strode forward and pistol-whipped him, knocking his hands loose. He followed with a hard kick to the face, sending his brother's attacker back to the floor.

Sam appeared to be unconscious. Crouching, but keeping his gun up, Dean checked Sam's head. He found a rapidly forming goose egg, but no blood. Sam moaned lightly when he applied pressure. Dean checked the eyes, but saw no signs of a concussion. That was good news at least. Sam was out for the count, but didn't appear too badly hurt.

Dean rose and stepped over to where McDowell lay unmoving. He nudged the man with his foot, but got no response. Something was wrong. He watched closely, and realized that the groundskeeper wasn't breathing. _What?_

He knelt down, keeping the gun level, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. McDowell was dead. His skin was even clammy. It wasn't possible. _I didn't hit him that hard_….

Confused, Dean stood. From all the signs---signs he'd learned to read over the years---this man appeared dead. What's more, he appeared to have been dead for some time already. Dean had been prepared to confront a possessed man…not a zombie. He'd had quite enough of those in Picayune. But this man had been active and moving just moments before. Aggressive, even. It didn't make sense.

Shaking his head at the bizarre turn of events, Dean moved back to Sam, and shook the taller man's shoulders. Sam moaned, but didn't respond. _Great. Well, the digging is out for now._

He decided to take Sam back to the motel until he woke up, and to make sure a trip to the local hospital wasn't necessary. But first, he needed to know that the possessed groundskeeper wasn't just playing possum. He gathered some of the rope that held the unfortunate teenage girl in the chair, and tied McDowell's limp and cold hands behind his back. Then he tied one of the man's ankles to a nearby support beam. If he was acting, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

Of course, if he really was dead, they'd have to come back and clean the mess up before anyone found the bodies.

Turning his attention back to Sam, he curled one arm beneath his brother's shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. The taller man's eyes fluttered but didn't open. Judging by Sam's condition, it was going to be a long walk to the car.

"Picked a helluva time for a nap, Sammy."

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For Sam, consciousness came in spurts. He felt himself being hoisted off the floor---wherever he was---and had enough presence of mind to plant his feet flat so that he didn't immediately fall over, but he still swayed wildly until a warm surface pressed into his side and steadied him.

He knew the presence at his side, the one that was half-carrying him, was Dean. He more than knew it, he _felt_ it. More than the steady arms holding him up, more than the running commentary that he could hear but not quite understand, he sensed his older brother's proximity. And even though he couldn't get his eyes to open, and was barely walking, he wasn't afraid.

His on-again, off-again experience with consciousness became mixed with periods of intense vertigo as he felt himself being lowered onto a squeaky, cool surface. _The car seat_, he realized belatedly. Dean must have lowered him into the car. When the vertigo was joined by nausea, he chose to remain in the "off-again" mode, and tried to sleep.

The next thing he was aware of was a change in air temperature from cool to warm, and he was dropping again, slowly, meeting a soft surface. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew Dean was still nearby, so he relaxed and tried to return to sleep. A cold blob of something was pressed against the back of his head, making him wince.

He caught a flash of Dean's face and a painfully bright light, and tried to complain, but even to his own ears, the irritated words made no sense. Dean finally stopped messing with his eyes and moving him, so he curled lazily and surrendered to sleep.

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_Sam fell back on his bed, exhausted from the weekend spent chasing ghosts and trading good-natured insults with Dean. His annoying sibling was right about one thing: it had felt good to be a team again. And the adventure had made him realize something else._

_He needed to tell Jess the truth. If they were meant to be together, as he fervently hoped, then she would understand, and he owed it to her not to propose with the weight of the Winchester family secret around his neck._

_All of that would have to wait until she emerged from the shower. He wasn't sure he could stay awake long enough. He felt something hit his forehead. Water? He wasn't sure. He twitched as another drop of something hit him, and finally forced his eyes open. _

_Jess stared back at him, mouth twisted in a silent scream, hair pressed almost flat behind her…blood pooling across the front of her nightgown._

_He gasped, partly in shock, partly in terror, and partly denial. _

Why Sam?_ She whispered, confused, accusatory._

NO!

Sam flinched, feeling the sheets beneath him, and a cold object at the base of his skull, an icepack. He was in bed. He was dreaming…his old recurring nightmare. Sam couldn't open his eyes for some reason, so he tried to shift himself out of the dream, to control it. He and Dean had discussed the method once. It seemed to work; the dream faded, or at least, shifted to something else.

_He couldn't move. His back ached from being slammed against the wall, almost but not quite matching the pulsing pain in his head from where he'd nearly been beaten to death in the alley that afternoon._

_He struggled against the invisible grasp, but couldn't defeat it. But he had to, his brother was dying. Not ten feet away, Dean was being cut to pieces by the Demon, in his Dad's body. Dean cried out again, causing Sam to struggle harder. He almost made it that time, but failed again. _

DEAN! NO!_ He pulled harder, but he might as well have been nailed to the wall, he couldn't even move an inch. _DEAN! DON'T!_ He tried to move the Colt again, tried to summon whatever had helped him save Dean from Max in Saginaw. Nothing. The gun never moved. His brother cried out again. He was dying and Sam was helpless to stop it. _

He rammed his head against the wall in frustration, wincing as the icepack burrowed closer to his throbbing skull. Icepack? He was dreaming again. God, why was this happening? He tried to focus his mind enough to rouse himself. When that failed, he focused on the icepack, his one link to reality, and tried to follow it to consciousness.

It didn't work, though. The dreams—memories—kept coming, one after another. He curled in on himself, seeking escape.

_Max threatening his stepmother, blowing Dean's brains out with the 9mm when his brother tried to intervene._

_Daevas savagely beating them unconscious in a Chicago warehouse, Meg laughing in the background._

_Him pulling the trigger on the shotgun, blasting Dean with rock salt and sending him flying through a hidden door in the asylum._

_Watching their few family friends say one last goodbye to John Winchester, before leaving him and Dean alone in their grief._

_Dean being whipped by enraged ghosts of murdered slaves, because Sam failed to warn his brother about his vision._

He rolled onto his back; maybe rolling off the bed would wake him up. But the chains held him in place.

_He shivered, tired arms outstretched and manacled, as Kate and three of her vampire brood stood over him. Drew leered at him, salivating in anticipation. Kate dialed a number on his phone, while Drew and the others moved in. _

_Sharp fangs pierced the flesh of his right inner thigh, the right side of his chest, and his left bicep. His heart rate skyrocketed as blindingly intense pain enveloped his body. He tried to squirm away, but strong hands held him in place. It was so intensely painful that his brain never had a chance to shut down. All he could do was scream and pray for the torture to end. _

_Drew released his bicep, blood dripping from his mouth, and moved to his right shoulder, sinking his teeth in again. The others moved as well, one to his abdomen and one to his left calf._

_Until that moment, the most painful experience of Sam's life had been being touched with that frayed extension cord the night before. But that was nothing compared to this endless agony. He felt a hand on his lower jaw right before his brain finally remembered how to cease functioning._

"Sammy! Wake up, man!"

Sam's eyes at last obeyed his command to open, and he found himself not in the cabin being used for vampire food, but in a bed, staring up into Dean's concerned face. _It was only a dream_….

His mouth was uncooperative. "Wha---? Dean…?"

"You've been dreaming for hours. It took me ten minutes just to wake you up. Are you all right?"

Sam glanced around the room, trying to find his bearings. "Um…yeah. Yeah, I think so. It was just a nightmare." _Or ten_.

Dean eyed him critically. "You sure?"

_No, not really_, Sam wanted to say. The truth was he felt strange, but couldn't really put his finger on why. He shrugged. "I'm--- I'll be fine. My head hurts like hell…what happened?"

A sympathetic smile crossed Dean's features. "You got tackled by the bad guy, Sammy. Took you down hard."

Sam tried to remember. "The groundskeeper?"

"Yeah. You hit your head against the wall of the shed."

"What happened to McDowell?" Sam asked, rubbing his temple. The headache that had followed him from the dream wasn't getting any better.

"Dead."

Sam glanced up sharply. "Did you…?"

Dean shook his head. "Damnedest thing…I got him off you, and he was just…dead. Like he was a zombie or something."

Sam shuddered, not appreciating the reminder. He hadn't had much luck with zombies during the past few months. He suddenly remembered the dead girl they'd found in that shed. "The cops will be all over that place come morning."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "we should finish the salt and burn while it's still dark."

Sam ran his hand over his face, surprised at the amount of sweat running off his forehead. "Dean…you mind if I take a shower first? I wanna try and wake up some more."

"Go ahead. I wouldn't mind cleaning up myself. But, hurry up, no singing."

Sam rolled out of bed, shaking his head in mock indignation. "Hey, I'm _injured_ over here!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Faker. You were just tired of digging."

Sam stumbled toward the bathroom, stopping when he reached the door. "Hey? Why didn't you just leave me in the car and finish the job?"

"What? And let you bleed all over the seats?"

Sam smiled. "Oh, so you were worried about the _car_…."

Dean eyed him incredulously. "Uh, _yeah_. What else should I have worried about?"

Sam saw the real answer in his brother's eyes and nodded. "Uh, huh. Got it."

Dean looked away, hiding his face from view. "Hurry up, Sammy."

He wasted little time climbing into the shower. The warm water soothed the ache in his neck, though the lump on the back of his head stung. He was definitely feeling unusual. His coordination was off; it took three tries for him to get the soap off its plastic dish. He didn't bother trying to handle the shampoo bottle, settling for merely rinsing his sweat-soaked hair.

He might be looking at a hospital visit after all. He shouldn't be this messed up from a simple bump on the head. He stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist, squinting as his lingering headache intensified. He braced himself against the sink as the pain spiked. He grasped his head with a grunt and tried to speak. He needed Dean, but his voice ignored his commands.

Everything went black.

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Dean scratched his head. The problem with grave-digging was that the dirt got everywhere. Clothes, skin, shoes, hair…nothing was clean. He was secretly happy that Sam wanted to clean up, since it gave him a good excuse to do the same. They had plenty of time before the sun rose, anyway.

He moved Sam's bag out of the corner and onto the bed. His little brother was worrying him. He'd tossed and turned since Dean returned him to the bed, and even though he showed no signs of concussion, he was acting sluggish and disoriented. Dean hoped a trip to the hospital was unnecessary.

His thoughts were interrupted when Sam came out of the shower, clad in a towel. Dean smirked. "You leave any hot water?"

Sam didn't answer, he just moved over to the corner of the room looking confused. Dean frowned, but then realized the problem. Sam was looking for his clothes. "I moved your bag to the bed."

Sam nodded in apparent understanding and moved toward the bed, but stayed silent.

Dean frowned again. "Sammy? You sure you're okay?"

His brother looked up for the first time since coming out of the shower, and a smile formed on his face. His eyes looked a lot clearer than they had been earlier. Still there was something vaguely discomforting about his expression.

"Never better."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Ok, for those who might actually read these notes, I screwed up in the last chapter's notes, geminigrl11 is an awesome BETA. Not beat. LOL_

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 5**

Anthony Stuart sat on the edge of the motel room's bed, taking in his surroundings with curiosity. He was still trying to piece together the events that led to his being in this room. In this body.

He remembered returning to the work shed at the cemetery, and finishing off bitchy little Erin. She'd known about Ryan and Brenda's affair the entire time, and lied about it to keep him from finding out earlier. He'd taken his time with her; unfortunately, she wasn't as strong as he'd hoped. She'd bled out her life energy much too soon. Leaving him hungry for more…he was always hungry these days.

He looked down at the muscular, towel-clad body he currently inhabited. It was a considerable improvement over George's. Unlike the middle-aged man he'd first woken up in, this one---Sam---was far younger, stronger, and in much better condition. Anthony had been forced to commit a great deal of his energy fighting off George's health problems…he didn't foresee such complications in Sam.

Sam was a prize. Anthony had seen it almost right away when the young man entered that shed. Sam was _special_, a kindred spirit. Better, he possessed power that Anthony hadn't dreamed of. Where Anthony could only take life energy, Sam had an entire range of abilities, many of them dormant.

Sam seemed mostly ignorant of his abilities. Anthony could feel the untapped nodes of power in Sam's mind: telekinesis, prognostication, telepathy…even--- What was this?

_Heh, that's an _awesome_ talent_….

Continuing his examination of his new home, a faint, but still visible line of bite marks along Sam's---his---bicep caught Anthony's eye. There were more scars where those came from. Sam had suffered greatly…and recently. So much pain lurked just beneath the surface. _So much energy to consume_….

_Speaking of Sam_….

Anthony looked inward, observing Sam inside the mental prison he was contained in. Anthony had spent hours assembling it. Sam's worst memories, the pain and grief, all those tormented nightmares had been locked together into a cage. A cage Anthony had forcefully thrust Sam into just minutes before.

It wouldn't be long, though, before Sam figured a way out. He was smart, intuitive. He didn't grasp all of his psychic potential yet, but there, alone, locked inside his own mind, it wouldn't take long for Sam to build up enough strength to push against the walls confining him.

_Time for a little distraction. And a meal_, Anthony mused.

Anthony turned his attention outward. He flexed Sam's---no, his now---muscles appreciatively. If only he'd had this body when he was--- Well, he had it now, that was what mattered. He was going to like it here.

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Sam was…nowhere. A featureless black void, like outer space with no stars, surrounded him. It was like standing on a darkened stage, though the stage floor was black as well. He was alone, confused.

He'd been in the shower just a moment ago. He'd felt a terrible headache building, then he blinked and was…here. The shower had disappeared. The motel had disappeared. Dean---

He'd last seen his brother standing by the beds when he'd gone to shower. Was Dean still in the motel? _More importantly, where am I?_

He was alone. The void around him was dark and silent. He made no noise as he stood there; his feet seemed to touch nothing even though he was obviously standing. Wasn't he?

Much to his added confusion, he was also wearing clothes. He remembered wrapping the bath towel around his waist, but not getting dressed after that. Not that he minded. If he had to be _here_, at least he wasn't half-naked.

Despite the nothingness, Sam saw---maybe sensed was a better term---some kind of boundary. Maybe if he moved toward it----

Sam froze. He wasn't alone anymore. He spun around to face…himself. Or at least, something that looked disturbingly like him, same clothes, same face, but the eyes were all white. The milky white eyes were bright, almost glowing.

And they were watching him. Sam suppressed a shudder. Whatever this was might help him find a way out of…wherever he was. His gaze was drawn back to the eyes though. They studied him coldly, and Sam had to plant his feet to keep himself from stepping away. The eyes seemed to look directly into his soul, and his fear ratcheted up a notch every moment the unblinking gaze was on him.

At least the eyes weren't yellow….

The other version of him spoke. It used his voice, but the mouth never moved. The voice was playing inside Sam's head.

_I hope you like it here, Sam. I admit it isn't my best work. But, I needed to keep you somewhere, and I was running out of time._

"Keep me? Who are you? Where am I?" Sam demanded.

The other Sam smirked. Flashes of imagery filled the inky void around them. Sam saw himself, sitting on the edge of the motel bed, in a towel. He reached out, trying to touch the image, but it seemed to be right in front of him and across the void all at once. There was nothing for his hand to touch. He stopped trying to reach for it and studied the image. It was playing like a movie. The bathroom door opened….

_Oh, God_…. Sam recognized it. It was his vision. He turned when the other Sam spoke again, only to find his doppelganger walking in a slow circle around him. A warden inspecting his prisoner.

_I'll try to keep this painless. As, as long as you don't fight me, I won't hurt you_. _After all, we've got a lot in common. You know, being "special" and all…. _

Suddenly, it all clicked in to place, and Sam knew what—who—he was dealing with. The possessed groundskeeper, the nightmares he'd had while he slept off the blow to his head. Negative emotions. Pain. Grief. Things that could be fed off….

"Anthony?"

_But that means_…. Sam was the one possessed now. He needed to warn Dean. But how?

His other self continued to stroll slowly around him, still watching. Sam noted that his movements didn't make noise either. He wondered if the "Sam" in front of him was solid, or just a mirage. The smug expression softened somewhat.

_I thought I was alone. I thought my…abilities…we're something to be afraid of. I wish I'd met you sooner_.

"Anthony, listen, we can help you. It's what me and my brother do. Let us help you…."

The smug smile returned.

_Your brother. Yes, he's a problem. I'll go easy on you, but Dean_….

Sam felt cold. He couldn't let this _thing_---this murderer---get to Dean. "Please. We can help you. Trust me, once we burn your bones you'll be free. You can---"

_I _am_ free, Sam. I can go anywhere…do almost anything. He taught me how. No one will force me to do anything I don't want ever again_.

"'He' who?" Sam asked, already fearing the answer.

_The man with the yellow eyes_.

Sam's stomach dropped. The demon had gotten to Anthony; apparently, it had driven him mad. Like Max. It had entered his dreams and turned him into a murderer, and Anthony's friends and family had been his first targets.

Was this what the demon had planned for him? Was this why Jess had to die? To push him, break him and make him a killer? The idea made him sick to his stomach. He fought for control, reminding himself that the demon was dead. Anthony was the threat now. Sam decided he'd try and reason with the trouble psychic. _Well, ex-psychic_….

Sam took a tentative step forward. "Anthony, the demon---that's what he was---he's dead. You don't have to hurt people anymore!"

The other Sam stepped back, defensive, stopping his slow circuit, and waggled his finger. _No, no. You're staying here, Sam. When I finish with Dean, we'll talk. I'll make you understand_.

A small spark of anger warmed Sam from within. Anthony had threatened Dean---_twice_. And his vision was about to come true. He wasn't going to let that happen. He moved toward Anthony again, intent on stopping him. He wasn't sure how, exactly. But if Anthony put him in here, then Anthony could let him out. Sam was going to get out.

To Sam's surprise, his white-eyed double turned his back on him with a sigh and started moving off into the darkness. Sam moved faster, trying to catch up. But reality didn't function the same way here. It seemed the faster he went the less ground he covered. Anthony was getting further away.

_Sorry, Sam. I really didn't want to, but you forced my hand. Enjoy the trip down memory lane_….

Sam didn't slow his advance, but was jerked back when steel shackles snapped into place, pulling his arms above his head.

Startled, Sam glanced up. The void and the images of his vision were gone, replaced by the white-washed wood of a ceiling. The ceiling of a log cabin. Sam pulled against the chains that had appeared above him, but he couldn't budge them. He was lifted up until his feet barely touched the floor. He looked down, and was shocked to find his clothes gone. He was wearing only his underwear.

He looked up, fearing what he already knew he was going to see. He'd seen it enough to know every detail. He was back in the vampires' lair. His personal hell. To make matters worse, Drew was walking toward him, a staple gun glinting in the soft light.

Sam struggled to pull back as he realized what was happening. Anthony had accessed his memories, and was using this to stop him from getting out of his mental cage.

"Anthony! Please! Don't do this! _Please_!" he yelled, but his captor was already gone. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out what he knew was coming next. It was only a memory after all, it couldn't hurt him. _It's not real_.

Knowing it was only a memory, though, wasn't enough to suppress the abject terror that gripped him as he reopened his eyes and watched Drew swagger closer. The image was vivid and precisely as it had been. Sam had a good memory.

He regretted the precision of his thoughts as soon as Drew opened his mouth.

"_Let's start with your name_…."

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Dean scrubbed the last of the water out of his hair, then wrapped his towel around his waist. He washed his face, trying to stop the line of thought that had pestered him all through his shower.

Sam might be in need of a trip to the E.R. after all. Head trauma was nothing to screw around with, and his little brother had been acting strangely ever since waking up. Dean resolved to keep an eye out, and if Sam didn't start acting better, they were dropping everything and heading to the local hospital.

Dean opened the door and stepped out into the main room, intent on finding some clothes. He spotted Sam immediately. His brother was sitting on the edge of the nearest bed, shoulders slumped, still not dressed.

A nagging, unsettled thought bounced around in the back of Dean's mind; something about this scene seemed familiar. He frowned. His brother was definitely acting strange. That bump on the head might have been more serious than he'd thought. He stopped a few feet from where Sam sat and frowned.

"Sam? Why aren't you getting dr---"

He never finished the question. Sam looked up at him suddenly, and Dean was lifted off his feet. He slammed into the motel room wall so hard that his breath was knocked out and the full length mirror hanging nearby rattled ominously.

As he gasped for air, Sam suddenly appeared in front of him, and Dean felt the sharp and distinctive sting of a knife blade pressing into his throat. He froze, trying his best not to move his neck as the blade moved in close. Sam sneered at him.

"How're you _feeling_, big brother?"

"Sam? What are you doing?" Dean asked, his Adam's apple bobbing dangerously close to the weapon.

Sam smiled, and a nearly hysterical gleam lit his eyes. "Sorry, Sam can't come to the phone right now…."

The sinking feeling that had started when he'd first seen Sam sitting on the end of the bed grew immeasurably worse. The odd behavior, the very un-Sam look in the eyes, the---

_Fuck me…Sam's vision_….

He remembered the way the groundskeeper had looked at Sam, and the way he'd muttered that something was "fascinating." Dean's sinking feeling took a nose-dive.

"Anthony?"

"In the flesh…so to speak…." Sam replied. Giggling like he was drunk.

The other part of the memory came to Dean. The part where he'd found that the groundskeeper was dead. "Where's Sam?"

Sam---Anthony---smiled at him in a way that would haunt Dean's dreams. "He's in here. He's a little busy."

His relief that his brother was still alive was short-lived, replaced with the panicked realization that he was trapped against the wall, in only a towel, with a creature that fed on life forces. He glanced down, trying to figure out why his arms and legs wouldn't move. He felt like he'd been duct-taped to the wall.

"How're you---?"

Anthony followed his gaze, and then the smile grew and he tapped his temple with his free hand. "Your brother has all kinds of tricks stored up here. The telekinesis is cool, though, I wish _I'd_ gotten that one."

Dean struggled against the invisible grip, stopping only when Anthony laughed.

"Don't bother. Sam may not have the hang of his abilities yet, but I already know how this psychic shit works. All I have to do is use Sam's brain the way it's _supposed_ to be used."

Giving up the futile attempt to move, Dean bit his lip and tried to think of a way to escape. One thing occurred to him, but he hated the idea. _Well, Sam's always trying to reason with people…maybe_….

"Anthony, listen. Just let Sam go, we can help you---"

Anthony rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically and making a crude gesture with his hand to indicate his boredom. "Oh, _come on_…I just got this 'you just need help' shtick from Sam! He's turning you into a pussy, Dean! I expected better!"

Dean bristled, though he wasn't sure if he was more angry that Anthony was calling him a pussy or that the deranged little psycho was insulting Sam. The fact that Anthony was "wearing" his little brother only made him angrier. He returned his earlier sneer and shot his captor a challenging glare.

"Well, why don't you let me down from here and I'll see what I can do! Oh, yeah, that's right, you like your victims tied down. Maybe you're the pussy!"

Anthony just stared for a moment, then turned slightly away and pursed his lips as if seriously considering letting him go. Dean was about to add some more bravado to his bluff, when Anthony's knee shot up and crashed into his groin so hard that he saw stars. Dean gasped in pain and struggled not to cry out. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain to pass. Anthony was suddenly in his face again, his eyes like daggers, with Dean's knife back at his jugular.

"I don't think so," he growled, and Dean felt the pressure on his arms and legs increase, "You know, I told Sam that I was gonna have to kill you. He wasn't too happy about it, so I had to give him a little memory to keep him busy. Want me to tell you about it?"

Dean desperately wanted to know where exactly Sam was and what was happening, but he wasn't about to give Anthony the satisfaction of asking, so he maintained his fearless mask. "Oh, please…can we just get to it? 'Cause this whole villain monologue thing has been done to death…."

The words were pretty close to words he'd shot at the demon months earlier, and Dean realized just a few seconds too late that the challenge hadn't gone too well for him that night. Anthony moved before Dean could soften or retract the comment.

Dean's knife left his throat, and reappeared outside of his towel, pressing dangerously against Dean's privates. He felt the bite of the blade through the cloth and held his breath.

"Or maybe I should just castrate your smart ass right now, that should get things moving, shouldn't it?"

Dean felt the blood leave his face even as he tried to keep a neutral expression. "On the other hand…there's no reason to be hasty."

Anthony smirked, then reached up and grabbed Dean by the chin, leaning in close to examine him. Dean felt like a bug under a microscope, but he couldn't pull away with his head already against the wall.

Suddenly, it felt as if Dean's head were being sawed open, and a rake being dragged across his brain. He grunted in pain, and struggled to breathe through the discomfort. He couldn't take his eyes away from his brother's…it was like he was transfixed.

Flashes of memory filled his thoughts. Random images, almost, but all negative. His Dad possessed, Sam shooting him, Kate and Drew dragging Sam out of their car on a dark road…. Suddenly the flashes stopped, and Anthony pulled back, smiling.

"There's a good one…."

Panic set in as Dean realized that this thing in his brother's body was going to feed on him. He struggled against the invisible telekinetic hold again, but still couldn't move. He tried futilely to pull away when one of Sam's hands gripped his head.

"Sammy," Dean muttered, "If you can hear me…I could really use your help about now…."

Sam---_Anthony_, Dean reminded himself---laid the knife on the nearby dresser and placed his now free hand flat against Dean's chest. A spark, like static electricity, passed between them, causing Dean to jump. Then all the warmth in his chest seemed to draw in around the hand.

The motel room faded.

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_The moldy smell of the old room assaulted his nostrils. The flicker of ancient oil lamps cast a creepy, hellish glow on the fire- and water-damaged wooden walls. The air was so cold his teeth chattered. He really wished he was wearing more than a tee shirt. _

Where the hell's my jacket?

_Dean glanced around, trying to figure out how he got here. He remembered being trapped in Marie's bedroom, and hearing Sam's cry for help. He remembered trying to get out, but the door held fast. And he remembered being lifted off his feet by something cold and relentless. _

_He pulled at the chains that held his wrists, testing them. They seemed to be as old as the rest of the room, which made sense. It probably wouldn't take much to break the shackles open. But he didn't have the leverage. _

Dean paused in his escape attempt. This had already happened. He tried to think…which proved harder than it should have. He was in the secret slave quarters that they'd found in the old bed and breakfast in Picayune. Sam had rescued him from this room. What the---?

And then the image shifted. The motel in New Mexico…the possessed grounds--- Sam! Dean forced his thoughts to coalesce, but it was like his brain was stuck in quicksand. He was still in the motel room, he had to be…but, why was he---?

_The temperature plummeted, and Dean shuddered as he heard two hate-filled words reverberating through the dimly lit room._

_Murderer… butcher…._

_Dean's attempts to free himself were interrupted when the cold air in the room seemed to swirl around him. Without warning an ice-cold force gripped his face, clamping his mouth shut. He jerked his head away._

His head collided with the motel room wall. Anthony frowned and renewed his grip on Dean's head, and pressed his hand harder into Dean's chest. The motel room faded again.

_"Get your hands off me!" he yelled. The invisible entity grabbed him again, unimpressed, and forced his mouth shut. Before Dean could jerk away again, a length of metal wire slithered up the front of his shirt and up his neck. _

_The next thing he knew was pain. The wire jabbed itself into his lower lip, forcing its way all the way in and then through his upper lip. He tried to cry out but his jaw was held tight, and only a muffled bellow came out. _

_The wire continued to move through his lips, up and down, effectively sewing his mouth shut. The pain was unbearable. He felt the blood dribbling down his chin, making a sticky path all the way down his neck to his shirt. Each piercing of the wire brought with it a wave of pain so intense that Dean felt himself starting to black out._

_His efforts to get away were prevented, and ignored, by whatever spirit was torturing him. He stopped pulling on the chains, and shifted his effort to blocking out the sensations coming from his face and mouth. _

_Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sewing job was finished. The grip on his jaw vanished, and Dean slumped, trying to get the pain under control. He wanted to believe the spirit was gone, but the still ice-cold temperature of the room told him otherwise_. _He didn't know how much more he could take._

_The disembodied voice, or one like it, filled the air again. _

_Monster…suffer by your own weapon!_

_Dean had no warning. The sound of something moving through the air at high speed was his only clue that something was happening behind him. The sound stopped with a loud crack, and at the exact moment his lower back seemed to light on fire. The pain was so much worse than even the sewing had been. _

_The sound returned, and when it cracked at the end, another blast of white-hot pain hit his back. It took one more blaze of pain for Dean's tormented brain to finally come up with an answer. He was being whipped. _

_The next blow struck between his shoulder blades, and he felt warm lines of wetness running down his back. It couldn't be sweat, it was too cold in the room. Blood. _

_He felt a small, but strong, point of warm pain in his chest, over his heart. He didn't understand what it could be, but all thought stopped when the whip landed, and he could spare no energy to figuring out why his chest was hurting when his back was being ripped apart_.

_Three more lashes across his back and Dean was barely holding on to consciousness. He had to stay awake. He had to find a way out of here. Sam had called out for him…his brother needed his help…. Another explosion of pain hit, taking his breath away and removing all thought of Sam from his mind._

_The blows came slower now…even the impacts seemed to take longer. Everything was in slow motion. Wave after wave of pain racked his body, and with each, a throbbing ache filled his head and chest. _

_The blows stopped, and for a few blissful moments, Dean dared to think it was over. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and end this nightmare. Then the spirit's voice boomed again, and dashed his hopes. _

_Again…._

_The whipping began anew. If Dean had been told that the second round would be even more agonizing than the first, he'd have laughed. Once it began, though, there was nothing to laugh at. The new round of blows was ten times worse, and he felt dizzy and disoriented._

_The dilapidated room, its frigid air, and the endless strikes of the whip all melted together and swirled into a single whirlwind of agony as Dean lost consciousness._

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Anthony reclined on the bed, arms crossed leisurely behind his head. Dean had provided a filling meal.

A part of him marveled at how strong Dean was…the hunter had almost broken Anthony's mental hold on him twice. It was a lot more than any of his previous meals had been capable of, and it had him intrigued. What other secrets were these brothers hiding?

He turned his attention inward, and listened to Sam suffer inside his prison. The poor guy was screaming his head off. Anthony noted, though, that even with all Sam was going though, even through all the begging for mercy, he was still feebly clawing at the walls that contained him.

Anthony smiled. Both these men were powerful. Between what he'd drained from Dean, and the energy Sam was radiating off in waves, he had quite a buzz going. These two were going to keep him fed for a long time.

He stretched out on the bed and enjoyed the sensations.

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Dean woke up cold. He was shivering, his hands shaking so hard that he had to make fists in order to quell the tremors. Chills shot up and down his backbone like bolts of lightning. He tried to take a deep breath and calm himself, but when he inhaled, sharp, familiar pain blossomed in his chest, over his heart.

He wrapped his arms around himself protectively and succumbed to the shivering. He couldn't seem to do much else. With some effort, he realized that he was lying on the floor on his side.

Dean forced his head to move and take in his surroundings. It took him a moment, but he realized that he was still in the motel room. An even longer moment went to figuring out why he was only wearing a bath towel. It appeared to be dawn, or close to it, from the light he saw behind the curtains.

The events leading to his current predicament rushed back to him. Sam was possessed. The thing inside him had attacked right as Dean left the shower. Just as Sam's vision had predicted.

He wondered what the hell he'd been thinking. They should have booked as soon as Sam had told him about what he'd dreamt. He'd been caught with his pants down---literally---and now both of them were in danger.

Sam's voice broke him from his thoughts. "About time you woke up."

Dean searched for the source of the voice, confused for a moment until he spotted Sam's elbow, now covered in a loose, unbuttoned shirt, jutting out from over the bed. The rest of Sam appeared a moment later. It was a horrible thing, to shudder at the sight of one's own brother. He had to remind himself that, while this was Sam's body, it certainly wasn't _Sam. _It was that bastard, Anthony.

"Back from dreamland, I see."

Dean fought a wave of fatigue as he remembered the dream Anthony was referring to. He'd dreamed about his whipping in Picayune.

No, that wasn't correct. He'd _relived_ his whipping. He'd experienced it like it was really happening as soon as Anthony's hands had made contact with his head and chest.

Anthony rose from the bed and stepped over to stand in front of him. He dropped several pieces of clothing on top of Dean, frowning in apparent distaste.

"Put these on. I don't want you getting sick. Not yet, anyway."

Dean almost flinched at the tone. It was Sam's voice, but _not_. It was hard, cold. It addressed him with all the concern with which Dean might speak to a hamburger. If he'd had any doubt that Sam wasn't in control of his body, this cured it.

He moved to do as he'd been told, wincing as he pulled the shirt over his head. It hurt to move, muscles aching as though he'd been working out hard…or gotten beat up. It was so distracting that it took three tries to get his shorts on. When he finished, Anthony was sitting on the side of the bed, watching him with a small smile.

"You're a fighter, Dean. I'm impressed. I'm going to keep you around for a while."

Dean strained to push himself up into a sitting position. When he finally managed it, the creepy, sadistic grin that had settled on his brother's face was really bothering him.

"Remember how I said we could help you, Anthony? Well…now we're just gonna kick your ass."

Dean smiled as the grin faltered, and slowly turned into an angry scowl. Anger was good, it made your opponent sloppy. Now, he needed to look for a weakness.

Anthony wasn't going to give him much time, though. He slid off the bed, and kneeled before Dean, the knife suddenly back in his hand. He pressed his palm against Dean's chest. The thin fabric of the shirt provided no protection from the static-like jolt that accompanied the contact. Dean gasped as the dull throb in his chest spiked into a sharp, endless pain. The same pain he'd felt during his dream.

It was pretty clear to him now that the feeling was Anthony feeding on him.

He watched his brother's face turn back into a smile, as his own knife dug into the flesh of his thigh, and a long, shallow cut was created. The cut burned, distracting Dean from the chest pain. Anthony's smile broadened.

"Let's try something else…ah, that's a good one…."

The motel room faded again, replaced by the shack in Missouri. His Dad's yellow eyes glared at him, as pain filled Dean's mind.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for the wonderful reviews I've received so far. _

_Just a note, everything that Sam remembers here is pretty much pulled verbatim from "In the Pursqueeter." Any new readers are invited to read the previous story for context. I know, I'm always pressuring for new reviews! LOL!_

_**WARNING:**__ parts of this are about to get graphic. _

_Thanks to geminigrl11 for being an awesome beta, as always. _

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 6**

Sam crumpled to the hard wood floor when the vampires released him from the shackles. The whole thing was about to start again. Every time it ended, every time Drew finished with him, he found himself right back at the beginning, being hauled up and hung from the ceiling rafters.

He'd lived through this hell six times since Anthony left him here. The entire six and a half hour torture session from beginning to end, without a single moment edited. His memories were vivid, and he'd relived them enough over the last few months to know that nothing was being left out.

On the one hand, he was glad. The sheer repetition was enough to tell him that he was simply reliving the memory, and not actually present there in the cabin.

On the other hand, it didn't matter that his mind screamed that none of it was real. The agony _was_ real to him. It had been real ever since that night in Ohio.

He wondered, idly, in between the times he was dropped carelessly to the floor and hauled back up, if he was experiencing it in real time---which would mean he'd been trapped here for more than a day and a half---or if time worked as differently in this mental prison as physics and biology did.

Intellectually, he knew his body wasn't really here, but his sense of self was so strong, that sometimes he forgot that this place, whatever it was, was all in his mind. It certainly felt real enough.

He wasn't hungry. He didn't have to use the bathroom---which was good, since there wasn't one that he knew of---nor was there really any ceiling to hang from or floor to collapse to. Yet he was hung from the ceiling and he did crumple to the floor when Drew released him. The physics of his nightmarish memory worked perfectly, he was simply playing it out in this dark nowhere.

Analyzing the situation helped. Thinking clinically about what was happening to him helped him remember that the pain was only in his mind. No matter how viscerally he remembered it, coming back to this void afterwards grounded him, kept him from going insane.

Though, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to hold out forever. If Anthony kept him here---

He felt his arms being hoisted up again, and knew that he'd see Drew any minute. He wondered if Dean was all right. Anthony hadn't returned since leaving him here. For all he knew, Anthony could be killing his brother. That thought gave him enough strength to keep looking for an escape from this prison.

_Drew punched him when he didn't answer, twice in the face and once in the stomach. He couldn't flex his abs quickly enough to block the blow, and he choked on the air that was expelled from his lungs_.

There had to be a way out of here. He had to find it.

_Drew smiled almost gleefully when he placed the staple gun against Sam's left thigh and depressed the trigger. Sam flinched, but Drew grabbed Sam's leg to keep him from pulling away. The staple gun was emptied before Drew spoke again_.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, envisioning the black void Anthony had left him in. There had to be a way out. He had to know if Dean---

_The long, sharp sewing needle pierced the flesh of Sam's shoulder, making him flinch. The sudden movement only made the pain worse. Drew asked for his name again and then pulled it out. Somehow, it hurt more leaving that it had entering. Sam spat at him, but Drew replied by simply inserting the needle into a spot under Sam's right arm. He wiggled it around this time before yanking it out_.

Sam clenched his teeth, refusing to scream for Drew's---or Anthony's---amusement. He pledged that every time, and wound up screaming every time anyway. The memories were far too powerful to ignore.

He desperately searched the perimeter of the void. Sam could sense the boundary not far from where he hung. He wasn't sure what he was looking for…but something had to be a door. Anthony had entered and left somehow.

_The large leather biker belt crashed against his stomach, and then twice against his left side. The metal studs bruised and poked his skin. The thing must have weighed a ton, given how hard each impact was. Drew brought it down on Sam's chest, winding him again and he gasped, struggling for air as the beating continued unabated_.

The pain finally tore Sam's attention from the void. Now, all he was concerned with was Drew, and the way the light bounced off the silver pliers as the vampire approached.

_By the time Drew got finished with his stomach, it felt as though a dozen holes had been pinched and torn in his flesh. Sam didn't look down to count. Drew asked him why they'd wanted the gun in Colorado, and when Sam cursed at him, he lowered the pliers below Sam's waist. _

_Sam felt the burning humiliation of having his underwear pulled down by the sadistic bastard before he felt the pliers close again and he let out his first scream. Drew took his time, enjoying the cruelty. If Sam had had the presence of mind to worry about it, he might have been concerned that Drew might be doing irreparable damage to his privates. _

_Though, if they killed him, he acknowledged that it wouldn't matter very much._

_Drew didn't care how much damage he was doing. Sam remembered that Kate's orders had only been to find out their names and to keep him alive. Drew might not be too worried about maiming him in the process. _

_The pliers gripped his flesh again, twisting and crushing. The pain consumed him_.

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_Dean struggled against the invisible force that was holding him in place. He was afraid. For the first time in months, if not years, he was terrified. His father strutted around the small room, yellow eyes glowing eerily in the gloom, taunting and mocking them. _

_The demon had been inside him all along, waiting for an opportunity to kill them and take the Colt. It had been a setup from the beginning, and that bitch Meg had probably known it all along. If he survived this, he was seriously considering summoning her out of Hell, so that he could exorcise her again. _

_But he had more to worry about right now. _

_The demon was standing in front of his little brother, tormenting him with talk of Jess' death. Even though Dean was still reeling from the revelation that Sam had been planning to propose to the poor girl, he needed to do something…needed to distract that thing so it would leave Sam alone. He spoke up, resorting to the only weapon he had, sarcasm._

_Admittedly, it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had._

_"Listen…do you mind getting this over with? 'Cause I really can't stand monologing---"_

_"Funny!" the demon exclaimed, moving away from Sam, "but that's part of your M.O., isn't it? To mask all that nasty pain…to mask the truth." _

_The demon stopped mere inches from his face, close enough that he filled Dean's field of vision and blocked Sam completely. Dean didn't blink. He faced his possessed father the same way he'd face down any monster. The more time he could buy Sam, the better._

_"Oh, yeah? What's that?" he asked, trying to keep the demon's attention focused on him. If anyone could think up a plan at this point, it was Sam. But, even if he couldn't, at least the demon was leaving his little brother alone for the time being._

_"You know," the demon shook his head, "you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is, they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam? He's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."_

_Dean was furious at the accusations against his Dad. Furious that the demon thought he could drive a wedge between him and his family. Furious…because he didn't really know whether it was lying or not. But he showed none of that. He replied with a taunt of his own._

_"I bet you're real proud of your kids, too, huh? Oh, wait…I forgot. I wasted 'em." He smiled. He could tell he'd struck a nerve. The demon stepped back. Dean stared it down._

_It looked down, and Dean dared hope that he might have actually hurt it with his words. He should have known better. It looked up again, and immediately, Dean felt something slash across his chest. He was being ripped open! Blood streamed down, soaking through his shirt. He couldn't help but cry out in pain. _

_He faintly heard Sam screaming at them, but couldn't make out what he was saying past the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Another gash opened him up. The bastard was gutting him like a fish. The pain intensified. It felt like his insides were being torn apart. He begged his father for help, but he doubted his pleas were heard._

_He looked up in time to see the demon step back again, and turn around. He looked at Sam, and watched as the younger man's chest was ripped open the same way his had been. He begged the demon to stop…having to shout to be heard over his brother's anguished cries. _

_The demon turned its yellow gaze back on him, and another tear opened up his flesh. _

The pain was intense, and Dean couldn't spare the energy from his cries to wonder why another, growing ache had appeared over his heart. It wasn't a gash like the others.

Some small part of Dean's brain yelled that this wasn't the way it had happened. He'd almost passed out. And then Sam had rescued him. The demon had never turned on Sam.

None of it mattered though, as the pain in his chest reached a crescendo, the old, dusty shack faded, and Dean blissfully lost consciousness.

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Anthony pulled back, removing his left hand from Dean's chest and his right from Dean's head. He felt as though he was floating from the high he had off Dean's pain. A smile spread across his mouth as he rocked back and sat on his haunches.

Dean slumped against the wall, out cold. Anthony's smile faded slightly. He'd have to slow down. The brother was growing weak, and if he kept feeding the way he had been today, Dean wouldn't last more than a few days. He'd have to spread it out.

A glance at the clock told him it was after three o'clock. He'd been feeding off Dean since the hunter had woken up, a little after sunrise. He hadn't intended to, but Dean was so full of pain and grief that Anthony couldn't help himself. Fortunately, Dean was strong and resistant. It not only made for a better meal, but it helped the person survive longer.

Anthony could feel the devotion these two had for each other. It was powerful, and no doubt it helped Dean hold out during the past few hours. It also probably explained the bond he'd discovered. He knew Sam was unaware of it, and Dean more than likely was too. He'd have to tell Dean about it when he woke up. Maybe toying with that bond would make the feeding more interesting. He'd already been through a lot of Dean's tastier memories.

Watching Dean's shallow breathing, and the slowly coagulating blood from the cuts he'd made along Dean's legs and stomach, he figured the hunter would be unconscious for quite some time. Frowning at the thought of delay, Anthony stood and stretched.

A glance in the mirror made him smile, though, and he opened his unbuttoned shirt all the way to view Sam's---his---body again. He really did wish he'd had this muscular form when he'd been alive. He'd have had a lot of fun…and Brenda probably wouldn't have left him.

He scowled. Brenda didn't matter anymore. She'd paid for her betrayal, just as Ryan had. Just like they all would.

He turned his attention back to his new physique. _Yeah, it's definitely time to take this for a spin_….

The sudden sound of a vibrating cell phone caught his attention. He stepped over to the dresser and found it---a quick check told him it was Sam's phone. The caller ID told him it was "Sarah." _Hmm_….

"Hello?" he said, trying hard to mimic the earnestness he'd heard in Sam's voice earlier.

"_Sam? It's me_."

"Sarah? Hi!" Anthony replied enthusiastically, hoping this girl didn't hear the uncertainty in his voice. He quickly searched Sam's mind for her identity, and stopped.

_Holy shit, she's hot!_ He found Sam's memories of Sarah and the month they'd stayed in New York. They were intense. Anthony couldn't stop his body's reflexive---and noticeable---reaction to thoughts of Sarah and what they'd done together. A small gasp of surprise slipped out before he brought the feelings under control.

"_Sam? Are you okay? You sound a little different_."

Anthony covered as quickly as he could, and tried to think of something sappy that Sam might say. He chose something simple. "No, um, I'm fine. Never better. I just…it's really good to hear your voice. I've missed you."

She didn't sound entirely convinced, but the suspicion gradually left her voice. "_Oh…well, I miss you too. I was just calling to see how you were._"

"Oh," Anthony smiled, "we're good. The hunt's going really well. In fact, we're taking a break. I just finished lunch."

Sarah laughed, and for some reason Anthony couldn't fathom, the sound pleased him. "_Lunch, huh?_ _I guess Dean's happy then_."

Anthony grinned, and glanced over to where Dean was slumped against the wall, his pale skin almost matching the white wallpaper. "Yeah, he's having a blast."

"_So, did you mention anything to Dean about getting together?_" He could tell she was trying not to sound anxious, but it was bleeding through anyway. They must not have seen each other for a while.

Anthony checked quickly, and discovered that he and Dean had, in fact, discussed it.

"Uh, yeah…he thinks we should do it as soon as we're finished here," he glanced again at Dean's still form and made a judgment call, "probably no more than a week at this rate."

Sarah sounded elated. "_That's great! Are you guys coming this way, or do you want to meet somewhere?_"

Anthony took a moment to relish one of Sam's memories. The feel of Sarah's soft skin underneath his body aroused him. He knew he needed to meet this girl. _But, New York? _Anthony hated to fly, and he'd probably starve during the long car ride across country…though he supposed he could stop a few times a day to feed. But, that was complicated, and if he got stuck in the desert somewhere….

"I think we should meet somewhere out here," he said, thinking quickly, "I'm not sure I could survive a car ride up to New York." He grimaced when he realized the slip, but she didn't seem to notice.

Sarah giggled, he smiled at the sound. He smiled more at the sounds he knew he would tear out of her when they met. "_That's kinda melodramatic, Sam, but I think I like it_. _You have any ideas in mind for where we can meet?_"

Anthony considered for a moment. "Let me give it some thought. I'm sure I can come up with a nice little getaway spot. Someplace for just the two of us…."

"_Just the--- What about Dean? Is he not coming?_"

Anthony made his voice sound reassuring. "Aw, don't worry about, Dean. He's just really drained right now. This job is wearing him out. And he promised he'd make us get a separate room anyway, after last time. Besides, I think we might need it…."

He sensed the wry smile in her voice. "_Ooh, I like the way your mind works, Sam. I can't wait to see you._"

Anthony smiled and answered her honestly. "Likewise."

"_Okay. Well, listen, I have to go. I love you_."

Anthony accessed the part of Sam's mind that housed thoughts of Sarah so that he could sound more convincing. It worked. "I love you. See you soon."

They ended the call, and Anthony was pleased at this turn of events. He couldn't wait to meet Sam's girl. _Sammy…you've been holding out on me_.

Anthony listened for a while, in case Sam replied, but the younger hunter was too worked up over the latest replay of his night of torture, and couldn't hear him. He'd have to go in and mention this conversation to Sam, it would be fun.

He took a moment, focused inward, to enjoy the energy from Sam. The looping nightmare was keeping Sam's anguish at an almost constant level, and Anthony used it to steadily siphon off energy from him. It wasn't enough to kill Sam; it was barely even noticed by his prisoner, but it was a good chaser for what he was drawing out of Dean.

Returning his attention to the mirror, he decided it was time to go out and enjoy his new self. With his new looks, he figured he could attract some dessert. He'd earned it, after all, with his convincing telephone performance.

Besides, Dean wasn't going anywhere.

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_The third time the hot poker seared his skin---this time on his left side, just below his ribs, and between two long sets of bruises left by the belt---he talked. _

_"Sam! My name's Sam! Sam Winchester! Please…."_

_Drew pulled the poker back a little, smiling at him. "Sam, huh? It suits you. Very good, Sam."_

_Sam was ashamed. But the relief he felt when Drew lowered the glowing metal poker and moved to put it back in the old stove overrode his injured pride. The pain was stopping, and that's all Sam cared about. _

_He was exhausted. Sweat poured off of him despite the cool air. Drew moved back into view and Sam silently prayed that he'd done what his tormentor wanted. Maybe they'd finally leave him alone. _

_Drew checked his watch, and shot Sam a pleased grin. "A little under two hours…not bad, Sammy."_

_Sam didn't need the reminder. Ten minutes to punch him six times, a little under five minutes to empty an entire clip of staples into his leg, thirty-five minutes to insert the needle into his body twenty-eight times, twenty minutes to receive fifteen lashes with the leather belt, twenty-five minutes to pinch, squeeze, tear, and twist his flesh with the pliers, twenty seconds to burn a scar into his skin with the poker, three times, spread over ten minutes…these were numbers he'd take to his grave. He cursed his own mental habit of counting so precisely._

_He refused to give Drew the satisfaction, though, and replied simply, "It's Sam."_

_It sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears._

_If Drew gave a damn about how to properly address him, he didn't show it. "I'll tell you what, since you've done something for me, I'll do something for you. You get the next ten minutes all to yourself. I gotta take a piss anyway." _

_Drew moved toward the door leading out into the main room, turned back and waggled his finger. "Don't go anywhere."_

_The door closed, leaving Sam alone with the one vampire Drew had left in the room. Sam looked away, hoping, praying, that his guard wouldn't see the tears flowing down his face or his lips quivering. He hadn't wanted to tell Drew anything. But he couldn't---_

_Dean's voice sounded in his head_. I know you're hurting, Sammy, but for God's sake, be a man_…._

_Sam sniffed, and forced himself to stop crying. It didn't matter. Drew had what he wanted. Now, maybe Sam could rest. His arms, long since numb from lack of circulation, ached slightly. He couldn't remember if they'd been among Drew's targets. _

_His leg muscles throbbed. The staples imbedded in his left thigh pinched him every time his leg twitched. His right thigh was better off, for what it was worth, with only four puncture wounds from the needle, and two dark, ugly bruises from the pliers. Tiny streams of blood flowed from each wound, drying into crusty red rivers on his skin._

_The worst pain, though, was in his stomach and groin. Each beat of his heart caused bruises and welts to pulsate. The three wounds from the hot poker felt like they were still burning. Small but painful blisters were forming around them._

_He didn't even want to think about what it would feel like to pee. _

_His self-diagnosis was interrupted when the door opened and Drew entered the room. Had it been ten minutes already? Sam could have sworn he'd been counting…. _

_Drew made a slow circle of the room and Sam beat down the urge to say something. When he spoke out of turn, Drew got really mean---which, at this point, was saying something. The blonde vampire picked up the leather belt from a workbench in the corner, and casually strolled over toward Sam. _

_It was difficult to read the expression on his face. Sam's vision was blurred from his concussion. Even tracking Drew's progress across the room was causing a little bit of vertigo. Sam stopped trying and cast his eyes downward, watching Drew come closer through the corner of his eye. _

"_So, Sammy--- Sammy? You paying attention?" Sam looked up at him. "Good. Now, let's talk about the other guy you were with. What's his name?"_

Dean._ No, he couldn't. It was one thing to give them his own name, but---_

_Sam was caught completely unprepared when the belt struck his right side. He cried out, more from being startled than from pain, though that set in quickly. _

"_I--- I can't. Please---"_

_The belt struck again, across his stomach, aggravating the bruises from earlier. Sam coughed, and tried to hold back the tears. He failed. _

"_Aw, is little Sammy hurt?" Drew asked mockingly, "Tell me your friend's name!" He flung the belt again. _

_It struck Sam's thigh hard, causing him to flinch. Most of the belt stopped on impact, but it was heavy, and the free end picked up speed as it curled around Sam's leg. The tip of the belt hit him right in the nuts. Sam screamed as the strike worsened the pain from earlier. Nausea assaulted him, and he had to choke down bile._

_He screamed again when the belt hit, even harder, wrapping itself around his left side and shoulder blade. Sam screwed his eyes shut, trying to will away the pain. The blackness of the inside of his eyelids wouldn't provide much protection, but he focused on it. He focused on the dark void, praying for an escape from the torture_.

The void. He was in the dark. The cage Anthony had placed him in. The pain faded. Cautiously, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Drew was gone. The cabin was gone. He glanced down, finding himself wearing clothes and lying on the ground...or whatever passed for a floor in this place.

_It's not real_, he assured himself. His memories. That's all it was…he was reliving it. He took a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself, then rolled over onto his side and pushed up on his hands.

He was alone in the void. He momentarily worried that he couldn't hear himself breathing, but then remembered that nothing worked normally here. He finally felt steady enough to stand.

Rising, he scanned the darkness. Flashes of images lashed across the empty space above him like lightning. He saw himself, talking on his cell. He saw Dean, lying helplessly against the motel room wall. He saw a face he didn't recognize…not in the motel, somewhere else. She was attractive, and seemed to be talking but he couldn't hear.

He saw a hand reaching toward her…his hand. _Oh, my God_…_Anthony_.

He must be out of the motel. He was walking around in Sam's body, approaching this girl, whoever she was.

The image changed back to Dean, unconscious on the floor. Sam could see cuts and blood. Dean looked so pale.

He had to get out of here. He had to get to Dean. With difficulty, Sam pushed away the last vestiges of his nightmare and resumed his search for a way out.

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Dean's hands were ice cold. All of him was. He pulled his hands underneath his body, trying to conserve heat, but it didn't help much. His tee shirt didn't provide a lot of warmth.

He forced his eyes open and tried to remember where he was. The last thing he remembered was getting ripped apart by the yellow-eyed demon, and his chest tearing open over and over.

The by now familiar, sense of disorientation and dizziness reminded him of what was going on. Anthony must have finished feeding. Dean strained to push himself up and look around. His captor was no where to be seen. _Where did he go?_

Glancing around the empty, silent motel room, Dean forced his legs to cooperate and pulled himself up using the dresser. As soon as he stood, vertigo caused him to stumble forward and crash unceremoniously on the nearest bed. Sam's bed.

He closed his eyes and waited for the spell to pass. As it gradually subsided, he got back to his feet, and steadied himself on the bed as he hobbled across the room to the window. The cuts and scrapes on his legs and stomach hurt like hell, but they weren't bleeding. The trip from one side of the room to the other was exhausting, though, and Dean collapsed into one of the chairs by the window as soon as he was close enough.

He pulled one of the curtains back and looked out. The Impala was gone. Anthony must have taken it somewhere. The sun was low in the sky, near sunset. Dean didn't like the idea of that psychopath running around town in Sam's body. _Well, we gotta do something about that_….

Dean wasn't sure what galled him more, that Anthony was jetting around town in his brother's body doing God-knows-what, or that he'd touched the Impala. He knew that, sooner or later, if they lived through this, he'd tell Sam that it was the theft of the Impala that troubled him the most.

It would be a lie. Though, it didn't help Anthony's case any. Whether the kid had been led astray by the demon or not, he'd screwed with the wrong hunters. Dean was going to send the little punk straight to Hell.

He gathered his strength and moved again, stepping over to his bag. He fished out his cell, and paused. He wasn't sure who he'd planned on calling. The two people who had dealt with one of these psychic killers, his Dad and Caleb, were both gone. Dean sank against the wall next to the TV, and tried to think of something. Bobby might have some advice, but he was more a demon hunter. He needed an expert on psychics.

Good thing he knew one of those experts.

He dialed Missouri Mosely's number. She answered on the second ring, much to his relief. Some small, absurd part of his brain wondered if she knew who was calling before she answered her phone.

"Missouri?"

"_Dean, baby?_" she seemed to hear something in his voice, "_Are you all right?_"

Dean chuckled at that loaded question. "Not really…."

He heard her gasp on the other end of the line, and knew that she had read it in his mind. "_Oh, my, Dean, how bad is it? How long has he been feeding on you?_"

Dean was grateful that he didn't have to fill in much. "Long enough. Missouri, I don't have a lot of time. He could come back any minute. How much do you know about these things?"

"_Not much_," she offered sadly, "_I think your daddy hunted one down years ago. But, baby, I think they had to kill it_."

Dean grimaced. He couldn't do that. He needed a way to get it out of his brother. He thought about the other ghosts he'd hunted before posing a question. "Listen, I think if I burn the bones like we planned, that will get Anthony out of Sam…but he won't let me out of here."

The cemetery was about ten minutes away by car. Since Anthony had the Impala, he would have to steal one. Of course, the tools for burning the bones were in the trunk. He'd have to improvise. He hesitated. If Anthony returned and found him missing…what would he do to Sam?

Missouri apparently read his thoughts again. "_You're afraid for Sam_."

"Is there any way to keep him out?" Dean asked, changing the subject, "He's using nightmares and memories to feed…I don't know how to block him."

She considered for a moment. "_Give me some time to see if I can find something_. _I used to have a book with some information about them_."

"I'll take anything at this point," Dean replied, sliding down the wall as his legs grew tired, "Just don't take too long…I'm not sure how much longer…."

He trailed off, but she seemed to understand. "_I'll call you as soon_---"

"No! No, don't call. If he finds out I won't get another chance. I'll call you…the next time he leaves."

He paused, reluctant to say what needed to be said next. Missouri beat him to it. "_I'll do the best I can, baby. Is there anything else I can do_…?"

Dean nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. "Get hold of Bobby. We're in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. If I can't--- He'll have to find a way to save Sam."

"_Call me as soon as you can, Dean_," Missouri implored. He agreed and cut the connection.

He heard the familiar rumble of the Impala outside and having only a moment to react before he heard the key in the door, he tossed his phone under the closest bed. He tried to get up and head back over to where Anthony had left him, but he ran out of time. Anthony re-entered the room. His expression immediately went from amused to angry.

Anthony crossed the room in three long strides, and hoisted Dean up by his shirt. "Going somewhere, Deano?" He punctuated it by slamming Dean hard against the wall, aggravating his sore muscles. There was a murderous gleam in his eyes, and Dean suddenly feared that he might not get that chance to call Missouri back. He just hoped Bobby got here soon, or he was going to die for nothing.

Anthony reached up, ready to clamp his hand down over Dean's heart. Dean braced himself for the attack he knew was coming. But, Anthony unexpectedly hesitated. His free hand shot up to his forehead, the other still vice-like on Dean's arm. Anthony cried out in pain, clutching his head.

Dean watched, confused, as Anthony jerked away, releasing Dean altogether. He stood, wincing in pain for several moments, before finally looking back up at Dean.

Those eyes were recognizable a mile away. Dean was stunned.

"Sammy?"

Sam flinched as if he was fighting something, but a small smile played over his face. The relief in his voice was palpable. "Dean…."

Dean couldn't stop his own smile from forming. "Jesus, Sammy, it's good to see you."

Sam's smile vanished. "Dean…you have to get out of here. Now. He's going to kill you."

Dean shook his head, and said what he felt even though on some level he knew it was stupid. "Not without you."

Sam reached out tentatively, and then grasped Dean's shoulder. His voice sounded weak when he spoke. "I can't…I can't hold him back much longer. Dean, please…go. Now! You can come back for me."

As much as it hurt, Dean knew Sam was right. He hated it, but there was no option. He had to get out to the cemetery and finish the job. Even if that didn't work, he could come back with Bobby as backup. He nodded reluctantly.

"Sammy…will you be okay?"

Sam flinched again, as if punched, but nodded quickly. "He won't kill me. I don't think he can while he's inside me…I'll be fine. Just go."

In that moment, Dean knew Sam was lying. Sam wasn't sure what Anthony would do. He was throwing himself in front of the angry psychic so that Dean could escape. He started to protest. He didn't want to leave…he couldn't. But Sam played dirty. He looked at Dean with a pleading expression, one that Dean knew he couldn't resist. He never had been able to.

"Dean…please…for me?"

Sam flinched again, this time grabbing onto the TV for support. Dean couldn't imagine what kind of battle his brother was waging inside his head. But he knew that Sam was doing it for him, and he couldn't let the effort go wasted. He nodded, hating himself for abandoning Sam to this monster.

"I'm coming back, Sammy. Just hang on."

He moved toward the door, holding onto the wall to stave off his own exhaustion. He spared a glance back at his brother, who smiled gamely, but held onto the TV stand with a white-knuckled grip.

Dean turned back away. He was almost to the door when he heard Sam's voice again. It sounded strained, and his teeth were clenched together.

"Dean…?"

Dean paused at the sound, and looked back. Sam was standing straight now, the look of pain gone.

"Sam really shouldn't have done that…."

Dean's blood froze at the icy tone in his brother's voice. Anthony was back. He had just enough time to take one step backward before Anthony flicked his wrist.

An invisible grip surrounded Dean, picking him up off of his feet and hurling him over the bed. He hit the wall hard, shattering the ugly watercolor painting that hung there, then fell and landed face-down on the mattress. Coughing, he tried to pick himself up, but his abused body had had enough for one day. He couldn't move his arm two inches before exhaustion set in.

A few moments went by, and Dean began to succumb to the permeating need for sleep. At least the bed was more comfortable than the floor. He was almost out when he felt the bed dip down. A moment later, two strong hands took his shoulders and rolled him over. Anthony sat, looking down at him with a satisfied smile. He held Dean's knife in his hand.

"Let me show you what's going to happen the next time you try to escape." Anthony said quietly.

He raised the knife and began to drag it slowly across his forearm---Sam's forearm. Blood flowed quickly from the cut. Anthony smile grew.

_No_… Dean struggled to lift his arms, to try and stop what was happening. "No! Anthony, no! Please! Don't hurt him!"

Anthony stopped cutting, but kept the knife poised over his arm. A few more inches and he'd reach the wrist. He looked at Dean with an expression of faked innocence.

"But, if I don't punish Sam, how will you ever learn?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. A grim determination flooded through him. He knew there was only one thing he could do to protect his brother. When he opened his eyes, Anthony was staring at him, expectant.

"Me," Dean whispered, "he was helping me. I'm responsible."

Anthony lowered the knife, his smile becoming a leering grin.

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Sam fell, plunging through the darkness. Anthony had beaten him. He tried to go back, tried to help Dean, but he was exhausted from the earlier attempt. All thought of going back ended when his decent stopped suddenly, and he was jerked upright by shackles around his wrist.

He looked up. After a moment of confusion, he recognized the cabin. He was in Ohio again. During the worst night of his life.

Anthony was trying to trap him in his nightmarish memory again.

_It's not real. It's not real. It's not_---

Drew stood before him, asking about Dean, asking him to betray his brother. Sam couldn't do it…even though he knew what was coming next. Even though he knew that eventually, he inevitably would.

The frayed extension cord touched his stomach, sending electricity coursing through him.

Sam screamed. His body was on fire. The agony continued for several long moments before everything went black.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry for taking so long with this, I had an attack of writer's block followed by an attack of real life. Thanks for your patience. I'll post the rest faster, I promise!_

_**WARNING:**__ parts of this are still graphic. Many of the descriptions here are what I'd planned all along for "In the Pursqueeter," but cut for various reasons. There's also a flashback to "That Old Black Magic" later on._

_Something mentioned here about resisting psi-vamps is pulled from the internet. I didn't make it up._

_Have I mentioned recently that geminigrl11 is an awesome beta?_

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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"_Me," Dean whispered, "he was helping me. I'm responsible."_

_Anthony lowered the knife, his smile becoming a leering grin._

**Chapter 7**

Dean's grunt of pain made Anthony smile. He finished his cut and paused to admire his handiwork. Seven small, similar cuts ran the length of Dean's left arm. He almost laughed when he saw the hunter biting his lip to keep from making any further noises.

Shaking his head, he tossed Dean's bloodied arm off of his lap, not bothering to hold back the laughter this time when Dean gasped and cradled the abused limb.

"Aw, don't be a baby…they aren't even deep enough to leave scars."

He rose and walked over to the dresser, placing the knife there, out of Dean's reach, and wiping the excess blood from his hands onto his pant leg. He watched Dean in the mirror, disappointed when the other man didn't try to get up. Anthony was growing bored. He'd have to find another way to entertain himself.

But, first, he needed to wrap his injured arm. Hurting Sam had squashed Dean's rebellious streak for the moment, but it wasn't something he wanted to repeat. He liked his new body too much. An idea occurred to him as he wrapped gauze around his arm.

"So, Dean-o," he asked casually, not taking his eyes off his prey, "tell me about this Sarah chick."

Anthony would have sensed Dean's sudden hesitation and panic, even if it hadn't been written all over his face.

"Sarah who?"

Anthony moved back over to the bed, and plopped down lazily. He smiled at Dean's obvious lie.

"Oh, come on, buddy. You can tell me. Besides," he tapped his temple, "I've already seen the X-rated stuff. Whew, Sammy's got a kinky streak."

Dean grimaced, but then looked away and changed the subject. "You get off on that, don't you? Getting inside people's heads…their memories…."

Anthony shrugged. "Hell, I could use anything, even some of these juicy little sex scenes in Sam's head, but those don't work as well. I found out early on that painful memories and fear help me feed. And your yellow-eyed friend showed me how to find the nightmares."

Dean looked directly at him for the first time since his punishment started, looking surprisingly calm, even sympathetic. "The demon was _using_ you…it only wanted you to---"

"Yeah, yeah," Anthony intoned, boredom filling his tone, "I know all about your little feud with that thing. 'It killed mommy, it killed Jess…' blah, blah, blah. I don't really give a shit, Dean. I have my own problems."

Anger began to build inside Anthony, emotion spilling out despite his attempts to fight it. "Everyone in my life _betrayed me_…my dad, my girl, my best friend…. The only one who stuck up for me was my fucking stepmother, and I never liked her anyway!"

The anger overcame him, and he slammed his hand down on Dean's chest, re-establishing the psychic connection that let him feed. Dean cried out when the crackle of static popped between them.

Anthony sat up and put his face right in front of Dean's. "Let's talk about betrayal, Dean. Your brother's been lying to you, did you know that?"

When Dean didn't answer, he plowed on, "He's not getting better…he's just getting better at hiding it from _you_."

Dean glared at him, struggling to speak, but Anthony kept going. "He relives that night in Ohio all the time. He can't get past it, because he's ashamed of what he did."

"H-he's…got nothing to be ashamed of…you fucker!" Dean choked out, clearly in pain.

Anthony eased off a bit, maintaining the connection, but no longer siphoning off energy. He grinned as he realized that despite their bond, and despite the psychic connection he'd found, Dean was almost totally in the dark about his brother's problems.

_Well, time to fix that_….

He got right to the point. "Did you know that Sam's been hearing your thoughts, Dean?" At the hunter's look of surprise, Anthony had his answer, "Yeah. It started back when he was kidnapped; he was channeling your attitude…that warped bravado you think makes you charming. Then, he started picking up on little things you said in your head. He'd be able to read everything you think if he'd just focus on it."

"Stay out of Sam's business…if he wanted me to know, he'd tell me!" Dean snarled.

Anthony was impressed. He figured Dean would be hurt by the revelation. Instead, he seemed more concerned with protecting Sam. _Hmm. If at first you don't succeed_…. He placed one hand against Dean's head, and focused on the connection he'd been exploring. Dean gasped in pain and clawed uselessly at Anthony's hand.

"You feel _that_, right?" Anthony asked sarcastically.

"F-feels like a party in my b-brain…." Dean panted out, defiance in his eyes.

"Cute," Anthony replied with amusement, "that's Sam's connection to you. He doesn't even realize he's made one. Hell, it's probably been there for years. It made feeding on you go a lot smoother than the others."

He removed his hand from Dean's chest and leaned over so that he was resting lazily on top of him. "Know what else it can do?"

Dean didn't offer an answer; he was likely too distracted by the pain in his head. Anthony didn't bother to wait for one. "I can use it to show you something. Look…."

Anthony was pleased when Dean didn't resist.

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Dean woke up on a hard wooden floor, disoriented. The wall he was facing was made of logs. He gingerly pushed himself up, and realized that he'd seen these walls somewhere. He turned and found Sam---no, Anthony, if the freaky all-white eyes were any indication---leaning against the wall with his arms crossed casually over his chest.

The milky eyes shifted, scanning the room. Dean was more than a little unnerved by the fact that he could somehow tell which way the eyes were moving even without any pupils to follow.

"You know where we are, Dean-o?"

Dean replied simply, unemotionally, refusing to play along in whatever sick game Anthony wanted. "Yeah. The cabin in Ohio. Been there."

Anthony sighed, and moved from his relaxed place on the wall. "Well…yes and no. It _is_ the cabin in Ohio…or really, it's the memory of the cabin in Ohio. _Sam's_ memory. Is it accurate, Dean?"

The sicko actually sounded curious. Dean glanced at the wall and the floor, the patterns in the wood and the slits of light between the logs. "Yeah, it's perfect."

"Sam's got a pretty good memory, then?" Anthony asked, as if seeking confirmation.

Dean didn't know where this was leading, so he merely shrugged in acknowledgement. He wondered why Sam's memory was in question.

Anthony didn't disappoint him.

"See, I ask because, this is where I've been keeping Sam since I, uh, woke up…and I was curious about how realistic it was."

That caught Dean's attention. Sam was here? He gave in to his curiosity long enough to risk questioning Anthony. "Where? Why?"

"I needed a memory that would keep Sam busy. You saw him back in the room. He's strong, he almost took over. Good thing I know his brain better than he does now. This place keeps him occupied so that he can't come after me."

"What do you mean _occupied_?" Dean didn't like the sound of this at all.

"See for yourself," Anthony said, pointing behind Dean, "we're just getting to the good part."

Dean turned, and like being in a dream, was suddenly aware of more than just the wall and floor. Most of the room was behind him. He saw the feeding table, where the vampires had bled Sam. He saw the old wood stove, the small workbench full of blood-stained tools, everything was as he remembered it. In fact, he was standing just about where he'd stood that night, when he'd decided to burn the place to the ground. Where he'd beheaded that last vampire, the "Phone-Girl," as he'd nicknamed her.

Then, looking further ahead, he saw Sam.

Sam, only in his underwear, hung helplessly from chains that had been draped over a ceiling rafter. Bruises, burns and bloody abrasions dotted his body, the wounds visible even from this side of the room. Drew, the vampire that had tortured Sam that night---was torturing him _now_---was standing in front of his brother. A thick leather biker belt dangled from one hand.

He took a step forward, intent on stopping Drew. Even though Anthony had told him, it didn't occur to him that this was a memory, and that stopping Drew was useless. It also didn't occur to him that Anthony was right behind him. All that mattered was his urge to rescue Sam. It was as powerful now as it had been two months earlier.

As it had been _always_.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him abruptly. Too abruptly to be real and that snapped Dean out of his gut reaction. He looked, finding Anthony holding him back. The demented psychic draped an almost friendly arm over Dean's shoulders, effectively and effortlessly restraining him.

"Don't bother, Dean, you can't change this. But watch. A little while ago, Sam told Drew his name. They tortured him for about two hours before that, until he just couldn't take it. All he wanted was a little break from the pain. And so, Sam gave them what he _thought_ they wanted. But, just a minute ago, Drew asked about _you_. Sam didn't expect that."

Drew flung the heavy belt again, whipping Sam's stomach. Sam gagged, choking down a scream. He just hung there for a moment, catching his breath, while Drew paced slowly in front of him. Sam looked away, clenching his teeth. Dean recognized it as an attempt to compose himself; he'd seen Sam do it hundreds of times.

His captor didn't see it that way; the belt struck Sam again, across the right side and back. Sam jerked forward, and something resembling a sob escaped his lips.

"I told you to look at me, Sammy…." Drew warned. Sam reluctantly, but obediently turned his eyes back to him, abandoning his attempt to regain control. Dean winced. It hurt to see his proud, stubborn brother forced into being so compliant. He reminded himself that it had been hours since this started, and Drew had been working Sam over pretty hard, from what Dean could see.

"All I want is his name, Sammy…your partner won't mind."

Sam looked like he wanted to believe it, but then shook his head slowly. "I can't…Drew, I can't. Please. Please, I'm _begging_ you…don't make---"

Drew reached up and belted Sam across the face with his fist, whipping his head away. When Sam didn't immediately turn back, Drew pressed his thumb into one of the darker, bloody bruises along Sam's abdomen. Sam cried out and his whole body trembled, but Drew didn't let up.

"I said look at me…I won't tell you again."

Dean recognized a control method when he saw one. By keeping Sam's eyes on him, Drew was controlling the entire experience, and it gave Sam no way to hide his pain. Humiliation was a tactic too. When Sam made eye contact again, Drew released him with a smirk.

"You know, you're only hurting yourself…."

A single tear escaped Sam's eye, but he forced himself to keep staring at Drew. Dean felt sick. As much as he chided Sam for being emotional, he knew that as open as Sam was with him, Sam usually tried to hide it from others. Drew was demolishing Sam emotionally as well as physically.

It explained a lot to Dean about why, even months later, it was taking Sam so long to recover from this. Even though he'd been told about this interrogation, Dean now realized that Sam had left out as much as he'd revealed. The reality of it was far worse than Sam had admitted to him. He tried not to be hurt by the lack of trust, telling himself that Sam must have had his reasons.

Dean returned his attention to Drew, who was dropping the belt on the rickety table with a sigh, and picking up a long needle. "I don't know why you're making this so hard, Sammy. I don't want to hurt you…."

The lies flowed so easily from the vampire's mouth. Dean looked at Sam, and to his horror, he could see the first signs that Sam was starting to believe his captor's statements. It was subtle, just a glint of his little brother's eyes that told him that he was considering what he was hearing…he was considering that he was bringing this nightmare on himself.

Drew was in front of his dangling captive again, and without another word, he inserted the sharp needle into Sam's left side, pressing it all the way through the skin and back out. Sam squirmed, and his face contorted in pain, but Drew steadied his thrashing with one hand. Once he was done, he looked up into Sam's watering eyes.

"Does that hurt?" he asked with a grin, and Dean wanted to resurrect Drew so he could kill him all over again. "Does it?"

Sam bit his lip and nodded, not removing his eyes from Drew's face. His tormentor smiled at his answer, and responded by moving the needle back and forth, like a saw. Sam's face paled and he gasped at the new pain. After a few long, almost unbearable seconds, Drew yanked the needle out and stepped closer to his prisoner.

Drew reached up and yanked Sam's head back by the hair, then pressed the bloodied point into the junction where Sam's right pectoral muscle met his arm and shoulder. Sam managed to bite back a cry, but tears spilled from his eyes. From where Dean stood in the room, he could see his brother trying in vain to maintain eye contact even though his head was pulled back; he obviously thought that Drew's rule still applied.

Dean shuddered. Sam was starting to break, he could see it. The younger man, with his concussion and already weakened body, was slowly becoming more obedient to his captor. But something didn't make sense. He'd been told, by Drew later, that Sam had endured over six hours of this. Anthony said they were only two hours in.

He hadn't thought Sam had broken so early. Was Anthony manipulating the memory the way he had Dean's?

Dean felt queasy watching Sam suffer like this, and he turned away, looking back at the Sam with the white eyes. It was beyond weird to have two very different Sams in the same room. "Why? Why are you showing me this?"

Anthony shrugged, looking bored. "Kicks."

A terrible thought occurred to Dean. "You're making him relive this?"

Another shrug. "Yup. He's been through this, oh, I don't know, seven or eight times now…hey, watch this. This part surprised me when I saw it."

Dean turned back in time to see Drew pull the needle out roughly and release Sam's hair. He didn't wait before plunging the sharp implement back in, this time into Sam's right leg. "You know, Sammy, the sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner we can go get your buddy and bring him here. Would you like that?"

Sam looked at Drew sharply, frowning. Drew continued. "We can string him up too…Kate'd like that. Well, before we bleed you both dry…."

The whole time, Drew was twisting the needle in Sam's thigh. Sam grimaced, trying not to give in to the pain any more than he had, and Dean saw something flash over Sam's face. He'd been on the receiving end of that look enough to know what it was. Anger.

Sam snarled at Drew, and spit in the vampire's face, speaking between gasps of pain. "Fuck. You. I'll…_never_…tell you…his name."

Drew was furious. He ripped the needle out---leaving a gaping puncture wound in Sam's leg, one Dean remembered seeing in the hospital---stalked over to the workbench, and tossed the needle down angrily. He grabbed the fire poker out of the small stove, and marched back over to his bound captive.

"Wanna bet, you little bastard?" He didn't wait for an answer before he jabbed the poker into the center of Sam's chest. Sam screamed as the red hot metal seared his flesh. The other two vampires in the room grabbed his legs to keep him from pulling away. Drew rolled the poker around, then dragged it slowly across Sam's skin for about a half-inch. The skin was already blistering when he finally removed it and let Sam drag in a ragged breath. The poker didn't go far; just enough so Sam would know that it was still there.

Sam was panting, sweat rolling down his body, but still managed to glare at Drew. "Go to hell…."

Drew swung the poker six inches to the left and pressed in again, eliciting another scream from Sam as it burned into his right pectoral. Dean looked away, unable to watch. He glared at Anthony. His captor, though, was frowning, as if confused.

"So, all of this really happened, huh?"

Dean blinked, surprised. He choked out a reluctant answer. "Yes."

Anthony shrugged. "Huh. Well, that explains the scars. When I first found this, I figured it was more a nightmare than a real memory. You know, like Sam was remembering it worse than it was. Cool."

Dean was aghast. "Cool?!"

They were interrupted when Sam shouted at his tormentor. "_I said no, bloodsucking motherf---"_

He was cut off when the poker touched him again. Dean tried hard to ignore the screams. Sam was pleading with Drew now, his resolve clearly crumbling. The way Drew laughed at his prisoner's cries made Dean nauseous. He focused on Anthony.

"Why'd you change this? Wasn't it bad enough?"

Anthony stared at him in open confusion. "I didn't. Nothing needed to be changed here. It's all happening the way Sam remembers it."

Dean shook his head. "No. They questioned him for _six hours_. You said he told Drew his name after two…."

"Yeah, that's right. The next four were spent trying to keep Drew from learning _your_ name."

Dean blanched. Sam hadn't said anything about---

He suddenly remembered the meeting with Drew the morning after Sam had been taken.

_Man, you should be proud of that kid. It took me __six__ hours to get two little names out of him._

…_actually, it took longer to get __your__ name out of him than it did __his_

Dean looked back at Sam. Drew was holding the frayed extension cord now. Sam was muttering something. Dean couldn't make it out, but Drew apparently wasn't happy. He pressed the wires into Sam's stomach. Electricity sparked when the wire-ends made contact with Sam's sweat drenched skin. Sam's shriek cut Dean to the bone.

"Four hours of that…." Dean murmured.

Anthony pulled Dean a little closer with his arm, eerily mimicking the way Sam might have done the same. A comforting gesture. "He was protecting you. Frankly, if it had been me, I'd have thrown you to the wolves a lot sooner. But, Sam's doesn't seem to know when to quit."

Dean tensed at the insult, but otherwise ignored it. "He didn't tell me about this…."

"See?" Anthony grinned. "He's been lying to you. He's ashamed of himself for telling them about you."

The extension cord went low, behind Drew from Dean's vantage point, somewhere below Sam's waist. Sam screamed in earnest now, Drew mocking him and holding the wires to him for longer this time. How Sam remained conscious through it Dean didn't know. When Drew finally released him, Sam sagged in his chains, chin dropping to his chest.

But, Dean noted sadly that his eyes, even half-lidded, remained fixed obediently on Drew.

Dean turned away, even though some part of him wanted to keep watching, to find out what else Sam hadn't told him. But, that was Anthony's goal, for Dean to feel betrayed. That game had gone on long enough.

He had to put a stop to this.

"Anthony, please, don't make him go through this anymore. You don't know what that night did to him," he tried not to sound desperate.

Anthony's milky eyes turned toward him, his fingers tapping his temple. "Sure, I do. I'm in here, remember?"

"You just want to keep him busy? Fine. Find something else, some other memory. But, not this. This hurt him so much… Anthony, I'm begging you, okay? Is that what you want? 'Cause I'll beg. Please."

Anthony sighed, shaking his head. "Dude…Sam's really turning you into a pussy. You need to grow a pair."

Dean didn't respond, just stared at him. He didn't beg to anyone. He never had. But, if Sam had been reliving this over and over since Anthony had possessed him, then there's no telling what that would do to him. This night had been traumatic enough _once_. The thought that his brother was trapped in it, like a song on replay…that sounded like Hell. And he didn't want to know how that would affect Sam long-term.

Anthony held his gaze for a moment, then frowned. "Fine. Whatever. I can always start it up again if I need to. I'm sure there's some other memory in here I can use."

Dean exhaled, relieved. Anthony grabbed the back of his neck and forced him to meet his all-white eyes. "But, you aren't going to try to get away again. You do, and Sammy goes right back to where we leave off here. And, I'll make it worse. I'll make him relive it in slow motion. He'll feel like every second takes an hour. You got it?"

Dean nodded. It was an easy promise to make. At least Sam wouldn't suffer as much. And maybe he could find a way to get them both out of this mess before Anthony could follow through on his threat.

Anthony sighed, looking annoyed, but then froze and turned away, as if looking for something. Without another word, he walked away. Dean turned to see where he was going, but Anthony was just _gone_.

When Anthony had disappeared, apparently so did the cabin, Drew, and just about everything else. In place of the cabin, there was now a dark void. Sam collapsed to the "ground," fully clothed, unlike the nightmarish memory Dean had just witnessed.

Seeing nothing to stop him, Dean ran forward and cupped his hands beneath his brother's head, noting with worry that some of the effects of reliving his torture seemed to follow Sam here. Wherever they were. Sam's eyes were a little glazed, and he was sweating, but at least the bruises on Sam's face were gone.

"Sammy? You okay man?"

Sam blinked blearily at him, then smirked. "Not the way it happened…."

Dean frowned. His brother must have thought he was just part of the illusion. Before he could say anything more, both Sam and the void seemed to shift and began to fade.

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Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Something was wrong…the memory of Drew and his interrogation session had ended sooner than it should have. He was back in the void.

The last recollections of pain faded, and when he could pry his eyes open, he looked around. He was alone again.

_Funny, I could have sworn I saw Dean_….

But, clearly, there was no one here. Maybe he was losing it. Who knew what reliving a horrible memory over and over could do to someone? Maybe he was going crazy in here. He wondered what might happen if he did. If he'd even know the difference, anymore.

Sam pushed the disturbing thoughts aside and rolled over onto his side, preparing to push himself up. He intended to resume his search for an escape. He wasn't sure how much time he'd have before the cabin and Drew reappeared. The interval between "nightmares" had been growing shorter since he'd lost his battle for control and Anthony pushed him back into this cage.

He needed to get out. Anthony had been furious when he'd caught Dean trying to leave the room. The distraction had helped Sam surprise him and regain control of his body. If he could keep Anthony occupied long enough, then maybe Dean would have a chance to---

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the sensation of vertigo gripped him. He was rocking back and forth. No, wait, _everything_ was….

Getting control of his rolling stomach, he slowly opened his eyes. He had to keep it together long enough to help his brother.

The sight that greeted his eyes surprised him. It wasn't the cabin. He wasn't swinging in his chains. He was in a bed---well, more a cot than a bed---in a small, well-decorated room with round windows.

He didn't recognize it, though it felt familiar somehow. Satisfied for the moment that he wasn't going crazy---yet---he started to peel back the covers and resume his search for a way out of his mental prison. The new scenery didn't matter. A pair of hands wrapped around him, though, before he could get off the bed.

"Sam…"

The hands pulled him back even as he turned to identify who was speaking. "Sarah?"

"Go back to sleep, it was only a dream…"

It all clicked into place. This was the room he and Sarah shared on her father's boat the first night out in Long Island Sound. He could hear Dean shuffling towards the toilet across the hall, his seasickness making him miserable. He shook himself. This wasn't real…he was trapped inside his own mind. He needed to get out.

"Sarah…this isn't real. I have to go…."

If she registered his words at all, it didn't show. _Of course not_, he chided himself, _she's only a memory_.

"Sam, it's ok," she whispered into his ear, "lie back down. It was just a dream."

He wanted to explain to her that he had to go. Dean needed him. But, her lips brushed against his, just like they had that night, and he stopped. The feeling was so different, so much more pleasant than the endless hours he'd spent being tortured. He felt himself being drawn closer, her arms tightening around him.

Truth be known, he _was_ tired. Exhausted really. Surely, he could spend just a few minutes here, away from the pain. Her lips met his again, and he melted into the caress.

_Just a few minutes…then I'll go help Dean_.

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Anthony sat up, releasing Dean. The cell phone rang again. He stood and searched for the source of the sound. He'd heard it a few moments earlier. Maybe it was Sarah, again. He was really looking forward to meeting her.

The ring was different, though. He found the ringing phone under the other bed. It wasn't Sam's. _It must be Dean's_.

He grabbed it as it rang a third time. "Hello?"

"_Derek?_"

_Derek?_ Sam didn't seem recognize the voice, but Anthony decided to play along for the moment. Maybe he'd find something to amuse himself. "Uh, no. He's out. Who is this?"

"_Oh, this is Sherry…Officer Thompson…from the police station. Derek and I were supposed to meet tomorrow. To discuss the Lassiter case_."

Anthony noted how she'd quickly added that last part. It sounded like an excuse for a date. The part about Lassiter caught his interest, too. He stepped over to the dresser and opened the two wallets, noticing Dean's obviously faked Derek Wheeler ID. "Oh, yes. He mentioned that."

"_Well, I just wanted to let him know that my shift has been changed. I won't be able to make it tomorrow…but I'm free tonight, if Derek is_…."

Anthony smiled; this might be fun after all. Though he'd have to be careful, he didn't want the cops to find out Dean was here and spoil his fun. He glanced at the clock. "Oh, I'm sure he can make time. It's…what? Six o'clock now? When did you want to meet him?"

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Dean blinked, and found himself staring at the dirty-white stucco ceiling of the motel room. The shock of transition between Anthony's little dream world and the real one was jarring. He had a splitting headache, but didn't seem to be affected otherwise.

He looked around, and found Anthony standing by the mirror, using his cell phone. _Must have found it under the bed_….

He tried to listen to the conversation, but Anthony was speaking so quietly that he could only make out bits and pieces.

"…I know the place. Sounds great…I think I can arrange that…."

Anthony snapped the phone shut and glanced over. "Geez, dude. You hook up like that all the time?"

Dean blinked. "Huh?"

"That was your 'friend' Sherry, from the police station," Anthony replied easily, sauntering over and dropping onto the bed beside Dean. "She wants to meet you for dinner tonight. In about an hour."

Dean looked down at himself warily, then glanced up at Anthony in disbelief. "I think she might have a few questions about how I look…."

Anthony just stared for a moment, then broke out laughing. It wasn't a pleasant sound. It didn't sound like Sam, even though it was his voice. "You think I'm stupid, Dean? You're not going anywhere. I'm gonna…_meet_ her, before she goes into the restaurant. Should have a pretty good time. Well, _I_ will."

That sounded wrong on a lot of levels, and Dean grimaced at the casual way Anthony described what he did to people. He had to keep Anthony here. Sherry was a cop. She wouldn't know what to expect, and either she would be hurt or killed…or worse, she might defend herself and hurt Sam. Plus, if Missouri had called Bobby, the older hunter would be on his way, Dean hoped. No, Anthony needed to stay _here_.

"Anthony, listen. Don't do this. She hasn't done anything to you."

The deranged creature didn't seem to understand. "So?"

Or he didn't care.

Dean pressed on. "I thought you only wanted to hurt the people who hurt you?"

"And I have," Anthony countered coolly. Dean opened his mouth, but this time Anthony continued. "You wouldn't understand. You were always Mr. Popular growing up. Nailed every cheerleader and bimbo you ran across. You're still doing it. Sam always made friends pretty fast, too, even if he is a geek. I didn't have that."

"Anthony---"

"All my life, Dean, people walked all over me. In high school, I was _nothing_. A sniveling wannabe artist---"

Dean interrupted, taking another page from Sam's book and appealing to whatever spark of humanity might have remained in the cold-blooded killer that was leaning over him. He doubted there was anything left to appeal to, but still held out hope that he could get through. "I saw your stuff, in your room, you were a good artist."

"I was a loser! Brenda was my first girlfriend, and it turned out she was only dating me out of pity. Pity!" Anthony stood, opening his arms wide. "But look at me now. I've got a new body, a new _life_. And I'm going to enjoy myself for a change."

He stepped away from the bed and tossed Dean's phone onto the nightstand. "I've gotten meet her in an hour, and I need to take a shower and get some of this blood off of me," he said casually, "You stay put. Remember what I said about Sam…you behave, and he won't have to relive that night in Ohio anymore. Deal?"

Dean bit his lip. He didn't want Sam in that hell again, but he couldn't just sit idly by while Anthony roamed the streets in his brother's body either. He nodded stiffly. He'd have to play it cool until he had a chance to--- Well, until he had a chance, period.

Anthony seemed to accept his reaction, though, and started shedding his clothes on the way to the bathroom. Clearly, he didn't consider Dean much of a threat so long as Sam was threatened.

The bathroom door was shut, and moments later, Dean heard the shower running. Waiting a few more moments---making sure Anthony wasn't going to pop his head out the door---he dragged himself to the head of the bed and reached for his phone. He knew he was in the clear when he heard humming from the shower.

Dean dialed the number and held his breath, trying to steady himself. Sherry answered on the second ring. For a panicked moment, he couldn't remember the alias he'd used, then it came to him.

"Sherry? It's Derek. Listen. I heard you called. Right. Yeah, me too. But, hey, my partner…he didn't know we had another witness to interview tonight. Yeah, we're supposed to meet this guy in about half an hour. No, I don't know how long it'll take…we have a lot to go over. Yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry too. Listen, I'll call you tomorrow before you go on shift and we'll work out another time, okay? Good. Yeah. Bye."

He ended the call before she could ask any more questions. _Damn, cops can be nosy_…. He listened, still hearing the humming from the shower. Sounded like something by Nirvana. Rolling his eyes, Dean made his next call.

"Missouri?" He let his voice crack on this call. No need for confident masks with a mind-reader.

"_Baby, are you alright? You sound awful_."

"Peachy. I don't have long. Tell me you found something."

"_Not much, baby, just one reference to shielding yourself. Nothing proven_."

"I'll take anything at this point," Dean sighed. He kept one ear on the bathroom.

"_Well, I found one technique where the person being attacked can imagine a barrier, something between the two of you. Something like a diver's suit or something an astronaut wears. If you believe in it enough, you'll form a psychic barrier in your mind, something the psi-vampire can't get through_."

Dean was speechless for a long moment. He wanted to laugh but didn't have the energy to spare. "You want me to imagine myself in a space suit?! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard…."

"_Don't take that tone with me, Dean Winchester! I know it sounds crazy…but it's the only thing I've been able to find_."

If it had been anyone else, Dean would have been pissed. But, Missouri was practically family; he hadn't forgotten that she'd taken them in after their Dad died. He sighed, partly in frustration, partly in exhaustion.

"Okay, okay…I'll try it. Haven't got much to lose at this point. Did you call Bobby?"

"_He's heading your way. Are you gonna make it that long, Dean? You sound worse than before._"

"Been a long day. I dunno, we'll see," he said with resignation. He heard the shower turn off. "I gotta go. Thanks, Missouri."

"_Be careful, baby_." Dean ended the call and placed the phone back on the nightstand where he'd got it. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm his nerves. Anthony would be very angry when he realized that Sherry wasn't coming.

He just hoped Anthony didn't pick some other innocent passerby as a substitute.

Exhaustion pulled at him. He felt like he'd been run over by the Impala. He'd rest for a few minutes and then try and piece together a plan of action. He'd need one for when Anthony got back from his "date."

He really hadn't intended on falling asleep.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

_I want to apologize for the delays. Real life and a few other writing commitments have slowed me down these last few weeks, but now I'm freed up and I promise I'll finish this story before anything else comes up. _

_Geminigrl11 is an awesome beta. She helped me out with this chapter in a huge way! Bug her about the Puppy-fic when you get a chance._

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 8**

Anthony stepped out of the shower, dried off, and donned some clean clothes._ Sam's clothes_…. He'd have to go shopping, he supposed, since Sam's clothing choices were lame. _Jesus, how many layers can one guy wear?_

He felt refreshed. It had taken a lot of scrubbing, but he'd finally managed to get all of Dean's blood off of his hands. _Speaking of_.

He walked out into the bedroom, half-expecting to see Dean making another break for it, or already gone. Despite the weakened hunter's desire to keep Sam safe, Anthony didn't really think Dean would stop fighting. It didn't seem to be in his nature.

Much to his surprise, Dean was still lying on the bed.

"Huh. I figured you'd be running again," he said, tossing a comb onto the nightstand and smirking when Dean jumped at the sound. "Giving up, Dean-o?"

Dean glanced wearily at him, apparently not as amused as Anthony was in the situation. "Find another body and then go fuck yourself."

Anthony couldn't help but laugh. "Funny. Knew I was keeping you alive for a reason."

He sat on the second bed and pulled his shoes on. "So, is this Sherry girl hot?"

Dean sighed, resignation coloring his voice. "Yeah. Athletic, keep-you-up-all-night type."

"Heh. Good," Anthony replied with a grin. But then a foreign, almost wistful feeling came over him. It had been so long since he'd had someone to talk to…well, someone he didn't want revenge on, anyway. Dean was a pain in the ass, but underneath all the macho bullshit, he was a decent guy. Loyal.

Loyalty had been hard to come by in Anthony's life.

"You know, Dean, I kinda wish I'd met you…you know, before."

He didn't look back, but he heard Dean's snort. "Yeah, that would have been swell."

_So much for bonding. _Anthony ignored the dig, and stood. The wistful feelings disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. "I can see through that tough guy routine just as easily as Sammy can. I know you're full of crap."

He frowned when Dean didn't answer. He'd been hoping to get under the other man's skin a little more. He liked watching him squirm. Oh, well, he'd keep Dean around for another day or so, then put him out of his misery. It was the only humane thing to do at this point. His step-mom had always told him not to play with his food.

He moved for the door. "You gonna stay put or do I need to tie you up?"

Dean looked up at him, his expression gloomy but determined. "As long as you stop hurting Sam, I won't give you any trouble."

Anthony rolled his eyes. It was always the same with these two. _They act like there's no one else in the whole fucking world. _

"I gave him a _happy_ memory, Dean," he explained with annoyance, "I never wanted to hurt him anyway. You keep quiet and play nice, and it'll stay that way. I gotta go. I'm meeting your 'date' in a half hour."

Dean didn't answer. Anthony hadn't really expected him to. He snagged the car keys and stepped out the door, making sure it locked behind him. He tried to imagine what Sherry might look like based on her voice.

She sounded like a screamer.

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Dean sagged a little on the bed when the door slammed shut. He'd been trying to look a little stronger than he felt. He didn't want Anthony to know how close he was to collapsing. He doubted it had worked, but his captor seemed to think that he was harmless, and that wasn't a bad thing.

At the sound of the car door opening and closing, Dean took a few deep breathes. He needed to shore himself up if he was going to get himself---and Sam---out of this. His preparations were hindered by the fact that all his body wanted to do was lay back and sleep for two days. His left arm hurt like a sonnuva bitch from where Anthony had carved his skin with the knife. _Bastard_.

He figured, though, that it could have been worse. He could have continued carving up Sam. Dean could imagine telling his brother about that, after everything was over. Once Sam was safe again. Which he _would_ be. _Uh, yeah, dude. You helped me and he was pissed, so I let him cut up your arm like a roast._

Yeah. Not going to happen.

The distinctive roar of the Impala's engine starting drew his attention back to the moment. He saw the car's headlights on the window, and watched them pull back and turn away. Psychic creep had taken his car twice now. Dean didn't care whose skin he was wearing…that just wasn't cool. He shook off the irritation.

It was time.

With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position. A few more deep breaths and a wave of vertigo later, he had moved to the chair by the curtains. He glanced outside. Neither Anthony, nor the car, was anywhere to be seen. Dean let the curtain drop and continued forming the plan he'd started while Anthony was in the shower.

He could "find" a car and head out to the cemetery now, then finish the salt and burn on Anthony's corpse. It was the only way he could think of to exorcise the spirit from Sam's body. If that didn't work…well, they were both royally fucked.

Problem with Plan A was, it wasn't going to take Anthony long to discover that Sherry wasn't coming. He'd be furious. And if what he'd said about the psychic link between them was true, then it might not take Anthony long to track him to the cemetery and stop him.

_Jesus…he might be listening in on me right now…. _

There was no way to know for sure. Anthony had said that even Sam was unaware of it, so Dean had no knowledge of how the supposed link worked.

Plan B took a little longer, and was even more dangerous.

He could find some way to knock Anthony out. But, that meant being there in the room after the 'date' fell apart. Anthony might not give him a chance to do _anything_. The psychic might just walk in and kill him on the spot.

But rendering Anthony unconscious gave him more time. And knowing Anthony's sadistic habits, the psychic might try and rough him up before finishing him off. This would give Dean the opportunity he would need to strike.

It was definitely the better of two lousy plans.

All of that was assuming that Anthony wasn't listening in on his thoughts at that very moment. If that was the case, he'd not only screwed himself and his brother, but Bobby and Missouri as well. But, given a choice between going down fighting, and just waiting around for the end, he'd pick fighting every time.

Dean shook off the distraction of his exhaustion, and focused on the matter at hand. He could knock Sam out relatively easily, if he had the element of surprise. The problem was, Sam wasn't easily surprised. And since Dean had spent many years sparring with his little brother, Anthony would know his moves. Even if Anthony wasn't a trained fighter, Sam was, and Anthony had access to all of that. No, he needed something less direct.

_I could drug him_.

He pondered that for a few moments. The only things they had available were some sleeping pills and some industrial strength cold/fever pills that had seriously knocked Sam on his ass when he'd picked up the flu the previous year. But he doubted he'd get Anthony to eat or drink anything, and even if he could, the pills would take too long to affect him. If he knew his psycho-killers, Anthony would be returning to the motel in a rage. There wasn't going to be much time.

Well, there was a hospital just down the street. They might have something more useful on hand.

If he could stand up long enough to make it down there.

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_The boat's rocking was hypnotic. Sam sighed contently in Sarah's arms, her warmth and soothing voice easing his frayed nerves. His latest nightmare had been particularly vivid, and had she not been there, he doubted he'd have returned to sleep at all. _

_Thanks to her, sleep was now all he wanted. He closed his eyes, letting his forehead press against Sarah's on the pillow. He felt his body relaxing._

_Dean shuffled past the door again, making yet another pilgrimage to the bathroom. His brother's seasickness had been unexpected. Sam was glad they'd bought some seasick patches before leaving the waterfront. Dean was going to need them._

_Dean…. There was something about Dean. Something he was supposed to be worrying about…._

Dean!

Dean needed his help.

Sam opened his eyes. The boat's interior was gone, replaced by the now-familiar black void. Sam inhaled sharply, surprised by the change. The warmth and comfort of his memory of Sarah faded, leaving only the odd not-numb-not-anything feeling of his mental prison. _Figures. The happy dreams are always short_….

Shaking off the effects of the dream, he rolled over onto his back and sat up slowly. The memories of being on Sarah's boat were easier to shrug off than the more paralyzing ones from the cabin in Ohio. Sam idly wondered why Anthony had switched.

It really didn't matter, he supposed.

He pushed himself to his feet. He was becoming so accustomed to this place that he didn't even notice that he couldn't hear his grunt of effort or his clothes rustling. He moved to the "edge" of the void. Where whatever light there was here began to fade out into the nothingness beyond.

There was no wall, per se, no physical barrier. There was the calm, silent place where he was trapped, and a dome of inky black. Not really nothing, but not really anything either. Beyond that, he knew, lay control, five senses, the ability to _feel _and _act_.

And Dean. Dean was out there, too.

Sam wasn't sure it made sense even to him. He only knew that once through the black shell that formed his prison, he was in control of his real body again. The last time, Anthony was there too. They were sharing the same body, and it was like having another person inside him. There was a constant headache, pressure on his muscles and behind his eyes, like someone was competing for the same space in the universe as he was…and whoever could hold on the tightest won.

He'd lost the last time.

He ended his musings on his predicament. He needed to focus. He reached out for the _nothingness_ that lay before him. The instant he made contact---if you could call anything "contact" in a place where there wasn't anything physical---he felt a nightmarish memory assault his mind.

_Max aimed the handgun at his stepmother. Dean moved in front of her, trying to keep her safe. Max pulled the trigger with his mind and the contents of Dean's head exploded onto the dull, featureless white walls._

It wasn't like the memories of Drew. It didn't suck him in. He didn't relive it. He was just an observer. He chose to ignore it. It was easy, since he knew that the vision hadn't happened. Max hadn't killed Dean, because Sam had gotten there in time to save him. Just like Sam needed to now. He needed to get to Dean and nothing was going to stop him.

He moved past the memory of Max Miller, and pressed forward.

_He stood next to Dean, staring down at the nondescript pine box that held John Winchester's remains. He could feel Dean's grief next to him like a wave breaking against him. _

_Their few friends, some more family than acquaintance, slowly filed away. Sarah offered a short, sympathetic condolence. It had been nice of her to fly down from New York. He wanted to thank her, but his own grief was drowning him, and he had to leave the extra effort to Missouri. He'd have to fix that later. _

_Dean spoke softly once their audience had left. "It's over."_

The grief was too much, the loss too raw. Sam wanted to run away and hide. He couldn't face this again….

No!

Sam came back to himself, pulling out of the memory. It was harder this time; this memory _was _real---all too real. It had really happened that way, in the small cemetery outside Lawrence.

Sam tried to pull himself together. He was on his knees at the edge of the void. That wasn't the way out. That path led only to pain.

He rose and moved along the perimeter. The exit was there. He'd found it before. He would again.

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Anthony drummed his fingers impatiently on the Impala's steering wheel. It was 7:15. Sherry was late.

He didn't particularly care about this woman. He didn't know her, past Dean's half-hearted description. She was just a toy, really, a chance for him to play with his new body. He'd use her for a while, then move on. Hors d'oeuvres when there was an all-you-can-eat buffet to be had. He could do anything he wanted.

Though, he would be more careful this time. He'd made a mistake with Ryan. He should have finished off Brenda and Ryan at the same time. Instead, he'd let the authorities get involved, and Ryan had taken advantage of his vulnerability. He couldn't let that happen again.

He felt Sam, clawing at the walls of his cage. The young hunter was trying to escape again. He wasn't getting anywhere soon, though; from the looks of it, Sam was being repulsed by his own bad memories. It was a well-constructed cage. But, if Sam did get out again, he was going right back to his nightmares of Drew, regardless of whatever deals Anthony had made with Dean.

Anthony figured that was the fail-safe, the guarantee that Sam would stay relegated to the backburner, impotent. Exactly where he wanted him.

He glanced at the clock. 7:20. Sherry's lateness was heading for "stood up" territory. That angered Anthony more than he'd like to admit. He didn't really care about her, but he'd been stood up enough to still hate the feeling on principle. That was a feeling he was sure ego-ridden assholes like Dean knew nothing about---

Dean.

Something wasn't right about this.

Anthony thought about what he'd seen before leaving the motel. Sam's impressive memory came in handy. He'd seen Dean, lying on the bed in the same place that he'd been when Anthony had gone into the shower. Nothing---

Wait, no. Dean had moved to the top of the bed. Next to his phone.

_Sonnuva bitch!_

Anthony pounded the steering wheel with his fist. Dean must have warned Sherry that it was a setup. The little bastard had been playing on his sympathies the whole time!

Anthony started the car, throwing it into drive with a growl. Forget a few days…he was going to finish off Dean _tonight_.

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Sierra Vista hospital was small, compared to some of the medical facilities Dean had seen before. Of course, with the life his family had led, he'd been in and out of hospitals of all sizes, and after a while, he didn't even notice the differences anymore, only the uncanny similarities.

He rested his head for a moment---any longer and he'd surely fall asleep---before opening the door of the stolen Volkswagen and climbing to his feet. For once, he didn't even care about the car he'd hotwired in the motel lot. Beggars couldn't be choosers. Or so his Dad had occasionally mentioned.

He was tired. Anthony had done a professional job of feeding on him, and it was only the caffeine in the extra-strong coffee he'd hastily purchased on the way here that kept him on his feet. It didn't have enough sugar in it, but it would have to do.

Twenty minutes had passed since he'd left the motel room. Anthony probably knew something was up by now, presuming that Sherry hadn't made their "date," and that Anthony wasn't taking out his anger on some poor innocent off the street. Either way, it meant that he didn't have time to waste.

He'd decided on the direct approach. He walked in through the front door and headed straight for the large glass sign cabinet with the building map. No one challenged his entrance. It was 7:30, still visiting hours, and several people were moving through the lobby. He blended in well enough; though he knew he had to look pretty rough. He hadn't shaved in two days, and he'd only managed a half-hearted cleanup, enough to change his clothes and bandage his bloody arm.

He found the pharmacy on the map by the nurse's station. It was on the first floor, in the north wing of the building. It looked fairly secluded, and he hoped that there wouldn't be many staffers near it. He just hoped his luck held out for a few more minutes.

He moved casually down the hallway---noting all the exits and stairwells, in case he needed a fast getaway, and the lack of security cameras---and even managed a convincing smile to a few of the nurses and passing visitors. He hoped they didn't notice how stiffly he was moving or how bleary-eyed he was. _Just a little while longer and this will all be over_….

It had to be, because if he failed, he doubted Anthony would let him live through the night.

The pharmacy was mostly just a door covered in caution labels, and a small pickup window for the orderlies to leave and retrieve prescriptions. Unfortunately, the door was locked. _Great_. He had neglected to bring his lock-pick, which was probably a good thing since, on second glance, the door was wired with an alarm.

It was time for a more subtle approach. He found an uncomfortable-looking bench just a few feet away from the pharmacy door, moved to it and started fidgeting with his cell phone. Sitting would be unwise, he decided, since at this point, he'd sleep on anything, so he stood, leaning on the wall and trying to look casual.

He kept a covert eye on the area, and waited. There was little traffic through this section of the building, and he noted that there wasn't anyone actually _in_ the pharmacy either. He heard footsteps behind him, and returned his gaze to the phone.

A young man, not much older than Sam and with the same hairstyle, walked by and approached the pharmacy door. He was typing something on a PDA, and took no notice of anyone else in the hall. Dean pocketed his phone, double-checked to make sure they were alone, and took a calming breath.

The man produced a ring of keys, and found the right one without taking his eyes off the PDA screen. _Good_, Dean thought,_ that means he probably can shut off the alarm too._

The door opened, and Dean waited until the shorter man had entered a code on the door's keypad. The red alarm light turned green. The man was halfway inside before Dean pounced. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, kicked the door all the way shut, and pushed his prisoner up against the wall. The PDA went clattering across the floor. The man was startled, and Dean clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the cry of fear. For a moment, the man struggled. Dean kept him pinned against the wall, placing him in a head lock and cutting off the younger man's air. All struggling stopped a few moments later.

The young doctor, or whatever he was, collapsed bonelessly, and Dean guided him to the floor, checking his pulse on the way down. He'd wake up with a headache, but he should be all right. Dean stood and headed over to the storage cabinets.

He tried to clear his mind and remember the name of the drug he needed. After the showdown with the yellow-eyed demon, he'd been in and out of consciousness a lot during his stay in the hospital. Once, he'd pulled some of his sutures---reaching for the TV remote of all things---and the doctors had gone back in to re-stitch them. It was a quick procedure, and they'd given him a shot that put him out for a very short time.

Sam had said it was about ten minutes.

That was what he needed now. The problem was he couldn't remember what it was called. The doctor had told him, talking in that annoying monotone they liked to use to "relax" you. Dean had always found that tone irritating.

_Prop--- Propo-something… Propane? No, stupid, that's not right_….

Dean knew it was similar though, so he scanned the shelves for a word that started like that.

He'd gone through three cabinets when he finally found a tray labeled with the name Propofol emulsion. _Gotcha!_

Dean pulled the tray of syringes out and placed it on the counter. The syringes were plastic, and after reading the fine-print, he discovered that they were single-dose injectors. _Perfect_.

He laid two out on the counter, then used his sleeve to wipe his fingerprints off the tray, and placed it back on the shelf.

Turning, he noticed that the young doctor that he'd knocked out was stirring slowly. "Come on, Doogie Howser, I got to keep you hidden until I'm outta here."

Dean placed his hands under the unconscious man's arms and dragged him over to a closet on the far side of the small room. He opened the door with one hand, then stuffed the shorter man inside.

He closed the closet door, and pulled a nearby chair over to block it, then retrieved the small syringes, placed them gently into his wrist holster, and quietly left the pharmacy, turning the lights out on his way through the door.

The corridor was still empty. Thanking whatever deity was listening for small favors, he made his way down the hall and out one of the unlocked doors leading to the side parking lots.

It was time to face the music.

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Sam pulled back, shaking off the memory of the daevas beating him and Dean unconscious. It was hard to relive it, but this was still the weakest part of the cage he had found, and the easiest to push through. This was his way out.

He just needed to gather his strength, because after he fought his way outside, he'd still have Anthony to contend with. And the demented psychic wouldn't be happy, Sam was certain of that.

Sam extended his hands, ready to push into his escape route, when something shifted around him. He glanced up, noticing that the perimeter of the void was moving violently, like a boiling sea of black ink. This had happened earlier, when Anthony had gotten angry with Dean for trying to escape.

Something was enraging Anthony, and it was weakening the walls of Sam's prison. He smiled to himself. It was more than likely his brother's doing.

_Good job, Dean…just don't get yourself killed_….

Sam started to push.

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Dean parked the stolen Volkswagen in a remote corner of the motel's parking lot, away from prying eyes, and climbed out with a tired grunt. He checked the syringe, making sure the plastic cover was still in place, then slipped it into his pocket.

The Impala was parked in front of the room. _Great_. Dean thought glumly. Anthony was there. _Here we go_….

He crept quietly up the poorly-lit walkway. It was almost eight o'clock, and cloudy, making the spring evening gloomy, and shrouding the area in darkness. He got within ten feet of the door and hesitated, wondering if Anthony could sense his presence somehow. If the deranged killer had any kind of precognitive ability---which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, given whose body he was currently occupying---then all this work would be for nothing.

Dean steeled himself. He had no choice. Anthony had to be stopped. Sam needed to be saved. It was as simple as that.

He thought about Missouri's suggestion earlier, and hoped it wasn't for nothing. He summoned the image of an astronaut's bulky spacesuit in his mind, then imagined what it would look like from the inside.

It wasn't as hard as he'd feared. He and Sam had used their imaginations for more than hunting…once upon a time. They'd played aliens vs. astronauts inside spaceships made of cardboard boxes. They'd played deep sea diver hunting "evil" sea monsters and---Dean's favorite---evil mermaids. Their Dad had occasionally looked up from whatever he was researching and rolled his eyes, muttered about wild kids and crazy games. On the really rare occasions, he'd even left the dining room table and played the monster.

Dean missed his father most when he remembered those all-too-infrequent moments; when John, the great hunter, was just Dad, and he and Sammy were the happiest children on Earth. If only for a few minutes.

So, imagining himself inside a space suit wasn't as ridiculous as he'd told Missouri. In fact, it wasn't that hard at all. He donned his "suit" in his mind, and marched up to the door ready to save his brother. Anthony had forced Sam to relive the worst night of his life, his abduction, over and over. Tortured Sam with it.

Anthony was going to die. For good, this time.

He opened the door and carefully stepped in, all memory of his exhaustion forgotten in a surge of adrenaline.

Almost anticlimactically, Anthony was sitting on the edge of the closest bed, arms crossed petulantly over his---no, Sam's---chest, obviously fuming.

Dean stepped into the room all the way and closed the door. No need to alert any passersby to the trouble that was about to start. He edged along the wall, trying to get close without leaving himself open. But, he acknowledged, the telekinesis made that a questionable tactic. He made sure that as he moved, he kept up the image of the ponderous spacesuit surrounding him in his mind.

Anthony spoke without looking up, his tone low and angry. "You warned the cop? Told her not to come?"

Dean had never seen this expression on his brother's face, this raw hatred, not even when Sam thought about Drew. There was no humanity in this face.

"I should have known you wouldn't give in so easy," Anthony rumbled.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked innocently. "Get stood up, Psychic Boy?"

He immediately regretted his choice of words. That was a term of endearment he'd used with Sammy…he didn't want it related to this monster.

Anthony's eyes latched onto Dean's, and for a moment, Dean faltered. The hatred he'd seen in the face had transformed into blind fury.

Anthony moved faster than Dean would have thought possible. Not for the first time, Dean regretted Sam's football player build, as the psychic grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him bodily into the wall. His feet actually cleared the ground by a few inches.

Dean twisted in mid-air, desperate to keep from landing on the syringe in his pocket, and hit the wall left arm first. Pain exploded in the limb, Dean remembering too late that Anthony had been cutting him there just a short time before. He saw stars for a moment, but had no time to recover as Anthony was on top of him again, slamming him back into the wall and adding vertigo to the lightshow going on behind his eyes.

Dean focused on maintaining the image of the space suit as one of Anthony's hands closed around his throat and the other gripped the side of his head.

"The date's off," Anthony hissed icily. "But dinner's still on."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He was an astronaut. There was an alien Sammy trying to eat him, but the suit kept it out. His suit was impenetrable.

_I'll be damned_….

It was working.

Then Dean vaguely heard a curse.

"What the---? Oh, very _cute_, Dean. A shield? Please. You're psychic friend obviously didn't know about the back door."

_Psychic friend? Does he know about Missouri?_ A spark like static electricity popped against his head, and pain spiked inside Dean's skull---the same feeling from when Anthony had told him about the link to Sam. The image of the space suit shattered.

His eyes snapped open, and saw Anthony leaning over him, grinning with satisfaction. "Shields don't work when the victim has a built-in link that lets me in, Dean-o…."

_Crap_. Dean's chances were fading rapidly. He fumbled for the syringe, hoping that surprise would still give him the edge. He almost had it when he saw Anthony jerk backwards, releasing Dean's head.

The tall psychic flinched, once, twice...then swayed as if about to fall. The eyes rose again, and Dean sighed in relief when they met his.

"Dean…?"

Dean laughed out loud, "You've got fantastic timing, Sammy…."

Sam suffered some kind of spasm, grimacing. His neck was distended a little, veins bulging with the stress of whatever war was being waged inside of him. "He's--- He's gonna kill you this time. I can feel it…. Dean---"

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean said quickly, pulling out the syringe. "Got everything under control, now, little bro."

Before Sam could ask how that was, Dean pulled the plastic guard off the needle with his teeth, quickly checked for any unwanted air bubbles, grabbed the right side of Sam's neck, and brought the syringe up with his right hand. He jabbed it into Sam's jugular and depressed the plunger in one motion. He pulled it back out as gently as he could.

The reaction was almost immediate. Sam pulled away from him, stumbling backwards and holding his neck where the needle had entered. "Dean…?"

Dean pushed himself upright against the wall and stepped forward, mentally ticking off the seconds.

Sam swayed drunkenly, and his eyes visibly dulled.

_Almost_….

Dean moved forward, placing his hands under his brother's arms. He wasn't quite strong enough at the moment to catch Sam's six-foot-four bulk, so instead he redirected the kid's momentum, dumping him unceremoniously onto the closest bed. A few seconds after dropping, Sam's eyes slid shut.

Dean staggered to the bedside and carefully checked Sam's pulse. It was as strong as ever, and the breaths were steady and deep. Sam was asleep.

Dean couldn't wait around to make sure Sam was comfortable, so he left his brother's legs where they were, oddly angled out with feet still on the floor. It looked uncomfortable as hell, but with any luck, Sam wouldn't have to stay that way long.

Setting the timer on his watch for ten minutes, the length of time he hoped he would have, Dean moved quickly toward the door, snagging the car keys on his way.

As far as he could tell, Anthony hadn't let Sam sleep in the past two days; hopefully, natural exhaustion would keep Sam under a little longer. Dean checked his watch as he dropped into the Impala's driver's seat. Nine minutes.

If he pushed it, Dean could make it over to the cemetery in less than five minutes. He suspected there was only about ten minutes worth of digging left to do from where he and Sam had left off the other night.

So, Dean figured that in about twenty minutes, Anthony would be history.

His adrenaline high was already wearing off, though. He prayed to God---truly prayed---that he'd make it that long.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

_A HUGE thank you goes out to Geminigrl11, who made this chapter SO much better than it was originally. _

_I had so much material in this one that I ended up splitting it into two chapters. So, chapter 10 will be out in just a day or two._

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 9**

Vista Memory Gardens Cemetery was as barren and gloomy that night as it had been when Dean and Sam had been there earlier in the week. The only difference was the presence of police crime scene tape around the work shed and the open grave of Anthony Stuart. The shovels were set to one side, and Dean was glad that they'd chosen to wear work gloves that night. There would be no fingerprints for the police to find.

Dean approached the grave slowly, keeping a wary eye out for any police guarding the scene. He didn't see any, and no other cars were present besides the Impala. It looked like he was in the clear. He retrieved a shovel and got down to digging.

It was hard, given his condition. Exhaustion tugged at the edges of his consciousness, blurring his eyes and making him sweat more than he normally would, especially in the warm weather. Thankfully, though, there wasn't much work left to do, since he and Sam had cleared almost all of the dirt away before being interrupted. Still he was panting by the time he uncovered the top of the coffin.

It wasn't a simple pine box, like many of their digs, and Dean cursed when he had to clear out more dirt to find the hinges and handle. Once done, he tossed the shovel up onto the grass with a huff and leaned on the edge of the hole for a moment. Climbing out wasn't something he was looking forward to.

Shaking off the urge to just sleep right where he was, Dean rallied his strength and pulled himself up to ground level. He dumped half of the carton of salt over the bones, trying to get some beneath the half-closed casket cover as well. The accelerant came next. It was in a squeeze bottle, so it was easier to drench the fabric-covered walls of the box, and make sure that most of the decomposed skeleton was coated. A flick of his wrist, one tossed match, and the corpse was burning brightly in the enclosed space.

He gathered the can and carton, stuffing them into the duffle and slinging it over his shoulder. Then he picked up the two shovels and turned toward the cemetery entrance. He paused mid-step and turned back, staring at the flickering light from inside the hole.

Whenever possible, he and Sam reburied the caskets. It was something that Pastor Jim had always stressed when they were growing up. Salting and burning bones was a necessary evil, one that forced the offending spirit to move on and stop harming people. But, respect for the dead was still important. Sam had embraced the philosophy, and so, by extension, had Dean. So, even though he was in a hurry to get back and see if Sam was all right, his training made him pause and consider shoveling all the dirt back into the grave.

The persistent ache in his muscles, and the memories of almost three days of hell that he'd been put through, made him shake his head and turn back toward the gate.

_Screw him. I don't owe Anthony anything_...

He was back in the car and heading back to the motel moments later.

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Dean glanced at his watch on the way into the room. It had been about thirty minutes since he left. The scene that greeted him when he entered might have been funny in another place and time.

Sam's feet were still planted where Dean had left them, but now his upper body was twisted over, as if he'd tried to get up at some point and passed out again. His arms were stretched out over the edge of the bed, reaching for something. Dean wondered if Anthony had tried to get up before Dean had finished the salt and burn.

The urge to sleep was overwhelming now that he was in the cool, peaceful motel room. Dropping the duffle bag by the door, he stumbled over to the second bed and checked Sam's pulse. It was strong, and now that he was closer, he could hear Sam's snoring softly. His brother seemed fine, but Dean figured he couldn't leave him in this ridiculous position.

He reached for Sam's arms, about to pull him up onto the bed, but paused in thought. He grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and snapped a picture, then closed it and placed it back. Snaking his arms under Sam's, he pulled the younger man up onto the bed and laid his head on a pillow. Then he tugged Sam's shoes off, pulled the bed covers up over him, and retreated to his own bed.

There was no telling whether burning Anthony's bones had worked or not. From the outside, Sam was no different, though he did look peaceful. Hopefully, that was a good sign. He ran the EMF detector over Sam's slumbering form, and it barely reacted.

But then, he hadn't done that before, so he wasn't really sure if Anthony showed up that way or not. _He probably did_, Dean reasoned.

Dean shook his head. There was little else he could do. Tying Sam up would be useless, since if Anthony was still in there, he could get out of ropes pretty easily with the telekinesis. Best to just wait until morning. Bobby should be there by then, if he'd left when Missouri called him.

He'd hold here until Bobby arrived, then they could make sure Sam was okay._ The worst that can happen is he wakes up and kills me, right? No reason not to relax a little_, he thought, sinking down. He was pretty sure that idea was absurd, but at that moment, he was too tired to care.

He started shutting down as soon as he dropped onto the sheets. He only managed to get one boot off before his eyelids slid shut and he felt something soft hitting the side of his face.

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_Sam rose silently from the other bed, a furious look on his face. No, it wasn't Sam. It was someone else. Someone wearing Sam like a costume. Dean watched him---it---stand, but was unable to move. His hands were trapped under...something, it felt like he was stuck in molasses, as odd as that was. _

_He struggled to raise his arms, or stand, or move at all, but he was trapped. Sam walked slowly over to him, having to cross the short distance between the beds with more strides than it should have taken. He placed one knee on the bed; Dean felt it dip beneath his weight. Sam reared back, his hand clenched into a fist, aiming right at Dean's face. He drove it down, and Dean braced himself---_

Dean's eyes snapped open and he gasped. He couldn't move his arms. Panicked, he struggled, looking down. The bed sheets were tangled beneath him, and his hands had gotten wrapped up in them.

Calming himself, he extricated his arms, and sighed. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at his watch.

2:00 AM.

_Crap...when did I fall asleep? _He still had one boot on. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep while getting undressed. He rubbed his eyes again, then looked over at the other bed. Sam was curled on his side, snoring softly.

That was good. The anesthetic should have worn off by now, and he doubted Anthony would be sleeping if he had regained control of Sam's body. Dean let his head roll back onto the pillow. He could sleep for a few more _days_, no problem...

The rustle of sheets drew his attention back to the other bed, where he saw Sam rolled partially over onto his back, his still-sleeping face aimed eerily in Dean's direction. _That's creepy... _Dean thought idly.

A sudden sensation in his skull startled him. It was the same place Anthony had touched when he was talking about the link between him and Sam, and his heart sank. Maybe Anthony wasn't gone after all. Dean braced himself against the expected spike of pain.

But it never came.

Dean relaxed, curious as to what was causing it. The feeling wasn't the same as before in any way. If asked, he'd have to describe it as hesitant...almost _shy_. He laid there and just studied the sensation. It wasn't pressing---not much anyway---but it made him uncomfortable. It was the same feeling he got when Sam asked about his feelings. A queasy, self-conscious discomfort that made him want to deflect and change the subject.

Dean blinked. He glanced over at Sam, who was still facing in his direction, oddly tense in his sleep---

That's when he got it. Sam was using the link. _Sam _was. It took Dean a few moments to sort out his feelings, but he slowly realized that Sam wasn't really communicating with him...this was just a question. A status request.

_Well, this is awkward_... Dean thought. He had no idea how to respond. Would Sam hear if he just _thought _an answer back at him? Was Sam even aware that he was doing this?

Sam frowned slightly, he was waiting, obviously concerned even when he wasn't conscious. Dean decided on a middle ground, and answered out loud _and _mentally.

"I'm fine, Sammy...go to sleep."

Sam's frown softened. A warm, familiar feeling replaced the curious one. Dean sank back against the pillow. It didn't take a rocket scientist to identify this one. It made Dean blush a little. Sam was the only one who could do that to him.

"Knock it off, you big _girl_," he grumbled. There was no heat behind it, though.

Sam grunted in what might have been a laugh, and rolled back over, facing the other wall. His snoring resumed a few seconds later.

Dean lay there for a little while, feeling the sensation in his head recede slowly. He and Sam definitely needed to talk about this psychic link business. He'd been kinda hoping that Anthony had been lying about it, playing mind games. But, Sam had just proven that it existed, even if he didn't know about it consciously.

Why hadn't Sam told him? Or was Anthony telling the truth when he said Sam didn't know? He'd been telling the truth about the first part...

Then there was that whole business about Sam's flashbacks and how he'd been hiding it from both him and Sarah.

Dean closed his eyes, trying to rest, but too many questions rolled over in his mind. He needed to talk to his brother. Unfortunately, Sam seemed to be as exhausted as he was, the only difference being that Sam was fast asleep in the other bed, while Dean lay uncomfortably in his.

Untwisting the covers and pulling them up, Dean rolled over on his side and stared out the curtained window at the nose of the Impala, which was just visible under the glow of the parking lot lights. He knew every part of her backwards and forwards, and began mentally listing all the components of the engine. The exercise always calmed him. A few minutes later, he fell into a fitful sleep.

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Sam floated in the dark limbo between consciousness and sleep. Not quite able to sleep, but too tired to open his eyes. He felt like his limbs were filled with lead; even shifting positions was too strenuous.

He remembered breaking out of his prison, and he was pretty sure that he'd taken Anthony by surprise. He'd felt something painful in his neck shortly after…and then nothing. Had Anthony won? Was he going to wake up back in the void? Or had Anthony finally lost patience and cast Sam out of his body altogether?

Was that what this was? Was he floating around, detached from his body? Was this how the spirits he and Dean hunted saw existence?

Sam needed answers, but his mind couldn't focus. Every time he tried to think about something, it drifted out of his reach and into the blackness. Or was he the one drifting?

Nothing made sense. All he wanted to do was sleep….

He wasn't sure how, but he sensed his brother nearby. It was like a light entering a dark room. He tried to move toward the light. He couldn't see anything, and wasn't sure where Dean was or what he was doing.

_Dean?_

The light froze. Not that he could see it, or could tell how he knew it had frozen; he just knew that it had. And he knew that the light was somehow his brother. He _knew_.

Dean was still there, but silent. Had Anthony hurt him? Or worse? Sam wondered if he'd been too late. He needed to know.

_Dean? Are you all right? Please answer me_….

_Dean please_…. He didn't care how pathetic he sounded. He needed to know.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the light moved again, growing closer. The warmth of it seemed to reach out to him like a shy child.

…_fine Sammy…go to sleep_….

Relief flooded over Sam. He felt tension that he didn't know that he'd been carrying flow away from him. Overjoyed, he grabbed the light and drew it into an embrace. He wanted to hold on forever.

_Thank God you're okay_…

The light seemed to squirm. Could light squirm?

_Knock it off…you big_ girl….

Any doubt that it was Dean fled his mind. Sam laughed, releasing the light and letting it move slowly away. He was reluctant to let it go, since it meant he would be alone again. But, Dean's voice had made it better. His brother always made it better.

Sam relaxed and felt reality, such as it was, drain away. In its place, there was warmth, and Sam focused on that until he knew nothing else.

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Someone was pounding on the door. Dean raised his head groggily off the pillow and glared at the source of the offensive noise. Didn't Sam know he was sleeping? If he forgot his damned key again, Dean was gonna---

_Wait, Sam's_… Where was he? He looked over at the other bed, where his brother was stretched out, facedown on the pillows. _Oh, right…Anthony…burned the bones_…

But then, who the hell was at the door? Dean found his watch and looked at it, his bleary eyes taking a little too long to focus. That was worrisome, but he hoped it was just because he'd been sleeping so hard.

8:23 AM.

Any hopes he'd nurtured that it was room service and would go away if he didn't answer were dashed when the pounding continued. Dean groaned, and slid clumsily out of the bed.

He paused, and retrieved his knife from the dresser, where Anthony had left it. With his luck, the early-morning caller was Anthony in a new body…though the rational parts of Dean's brain dismissed that as all but impossible.

He moved over to the door, carefully keeping his footfalls light, and unlocked it as quietly as he could. Dean kept the knife out of sight behind his leg, and threw the door open. The wary stare of his shotgun-wielding visitor surprised him, and he let his guard drop.

"Bobby?"

The hunter glanced past Dean into the room, eyes roaming suspiciously over everything. "Dean? You all right, kid?"

Dean smirked, rubbing his eyes. "I think so…Missouri called you, right?"

Bobby nodded tersely. "She said Sam was possessed by some psychic ghost, and it was feeding on you. I left the house as soon as I hung up the phone."

Dean genuinely smiled as he sagged against the door. "Thanks. I took care of business, though."

"So, you both're all right?"

"Yeah, but I owe you one all the same, man…."

Bobby huffed and dropped the shotgun. "I just spent seventeen hours in my truck, and drove 1100 miles to save your ass. The _least_ you 'owe me' is a cup of coffee, Dean."

"Okay, okay. Geez, getting testy in your old age…." Dean laughed, standing aside.

"Yeah, yeah. Pain in the ass kids," Bobby groused, laying his shotgun by the doorjamb.

Bobby moved into the room, surveying the scene. The older hunter's eyes immediately fell onto Sam's sleeping form. "He's usually up with the roosters. He okay?"

Dean shrugged. "I think we could both sleep for a week. His pulse is steady. Breathing okay…I think he's just beat. He was up for a few days straight while he was possessed."

Bobby squinted, nodding slightly. "And you don't want to take him to the hospital without being able to tell 'em what's really wrong with him, right?"

"Heh," Dean chuckled. "That…and I had to assault a doctor last night so I could get some drugs to knock Sam out. I don't want to risk going back. I don't think he saw my face, but…."

"Yeah, occupational hazard," Bobby grunted. "You're _sure_ he's not still possessed?"

"It was a spirit, and I burned the bones, I'm sure Sam's fine, now," Bobby eyed him critically, making Dean squirm. "Okay, 90 percent sure."

Bobby scoffed and resumed his scan of the room. His eyes moved to the busted painting that rested in the corner by Dean's bed. "Helluva mess. You two have a wrestling match in here?"

Shutting the door, Dean joined the bearded demon hunter and nodded. "A few times. Anthony---that was the psychic's name---he had a lot of tricks up his sleeve."

"You look like shit, Dean," Bobby said matter-of-factly, looking directly at him. "You clean that arm, or just wrap it?"

Dean glanced down at the injured limb. He'd actually forgotten all about it. "Wrapped. Didn't have time for anything else."

Bobby snorted. "And I guess that goes for that cut on your back, too?"

Frowning, Dean glanced over his shoulder. He could just see a bloody stain above his shoulder blade. He stared for a moment, then raised his eyes back to the broken picture. He really must have been out of it. "Oh. I, uh…I didn't even feel it. I guess that happened when I hit that picture."

"He threw you into the wall?" Bobby asked, his eyebrows rose. "Jesus, he was that strong?"

Dean rubbed his eyes, swaying on his feet when he closed them. "That's not the half of it…."

He felt Bobby take him by the shoulders and pull him toward the chairs at the window. "Sit, before you fall over. You can start from the beginning while I check out that arm."

Dean gladly sank into the chair, leaving his arm stretched out on the small table. "Well…we were in Alamogordo…I guess that was Monday, I think, and…."

He filled Bobby in on the string of murders, the deranged psychic, drugging Sam and everything else they'd been through while the older man cleaned and bandaged his arm and back. It took him a while to figure out what seemed so wrong with the situation, and he frowned when it hit him.

Bobby was doing Sam's job.

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_They opened the shackles, dumping Sam to the floor in a heap. He was too weak to even cry out, mustering only a pathetic whimper. He heard Drew telling the others to put him on a table. He gasped when they pulled him up, their hands like blades cutting into his over-extended arms. _

_He stamped out the urge to talk back when Drew made a sarcastic remark. Talking back only brought more pain. He couldn't fight. He couldn't talk. He could only stay quiet and pray that Drew was finished with him._

_He was too dizzy to notice right away when they stopped moving. The room grew colder. He shivered, goose bumps rising on his bare flesh. He looked up when he heard footsteps, expecting Drew to fill his field of vision again. Instead, he saw…himself. _

_He was staring at a fully-clothed version of himself. Everything looked identical, his perfect clone—except the eyes were wrong. The other's eyes were solid white, no pupils at all. He tried to ask who---or what---the man was, but when he opened his mouth, a hand fell over his face. _

_The hand cut off his air, and he couldn't breathe. He panicked, struggling to free his still-numb arms, but his captors kept him still. He frantically tried to draw air into his lungs, but failed_.

Sam's eyes snapped open, and he pulled up off the pillow that had covered him with a startled gasp. His heart was pounding so hard that it felt like the organ was going to bust out of his chest. He took a few deep breaths, and tried to calm himself.

_It was just a dream_….

His hands didn't want to cooperate when he tried rubbing them together; the best he managed was clenching them into fists and crossing his arms. Frustrated by his body's uncooperativeness, he rested his head on his wrists and tried to find his bearings.

There was a long cut along his forearm that stopped just short of the wrist. Gauze seemed to cover most of it, but it stung when Sam's chin accidentally rubbed against it.

The white surface in front of him caught his attention. It surprised him. He'd been expecting to wake up in a black void, not a white one. It took a few moments to register that he was staring down onto a bed sheet. The revelation brought relief.

He was actually awake this time. Back in control of his body.

The concept was brought home with a vengeance when said body started sending him painful signals from a multitude cuts, bruises, and a very sore spot on his neck. But, damage control soon gave way to worry. Dean had been in serious trouble the last time he'd seen him. He struggled to get his aching body _moving_ so he could find out what was going on.

The next thing that registered was the smell that seemed to permeate the air around him. Sausage, bacon, and some unidentifiable sweet smell. It smelled good, and his stomach growled expectantly. He turned when he felt the mattress dip.

Dean sat next to Sam's hip, concern creasing his features. "You Sam this time?"

The oddness of the question made Sam pause. He thought about saying something sarcastic, but the events of the past few days slowly trickled back to him, and instead he simply nodded.

"Yeah. It's me."

Dean smirked, then rose and moved to the table. "Good. I hate it when breakfast goes to waste. Come on, Bobby got us grub."

"Bobby?"

"I didn't know if I'd be able to stop our buddy Anthony, so I called Missouri for help. She called Bobby, and he came out," Dean said matter-of-factly, moving over to the table that held breakfast.

Frowning, Sam glanced around the room. Doubt clouded his thoughts. Was this still his prison? Anthony might be getting better at manipulating his mind. This could all be in his head. Sam shook off the thought. It was too original. Anthony had been using Sam's own memories, not creating new ones.

At least, that's what he hoped.

Sam stood slowly, concerned at how much effort it took just to keep placing one foot in front of the other. By the time he made it around the other bed and to the seat opposite Dean, he felt like going back to bed. He dropped down into the chair with a sigh.

The spread was impressive, even considering Dean's appetite. Sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, even some pancakes in the center of the table. Though, much to Sam's disappointment, only juice, no coffee. Dean must have seen his expression.

"Vitamin C, dude. Bobby says people can get sick after getting attacked by…one of those things."

Sam nodded, grudgingly, and reached for one of the plastic orange juice bottles. It took three tries for him to pop the lid off. "Where _is_ Bobby?"

"Outside, talking to Missouri. She called to see what was going on right before you woke up." Dean noticed his difficulties with the juice bottle. "You okay?"

Sam was starting to feel like he was under a microscope and grimaced, flexing his hands. "Just…hard to move around. Coordination's shot to hell…."

Dean nodded. "I guess that makes sense. Someone else's been driving for a few days."

He smirked at Dean's description, but it quickly turned into a frown. "Are you okay, Dean? Did Anthony---"

"I'm okay. You're the one who went all Amityville."

"Amityville was a _demonic_ possession," Sam corrected reflexively, then shook his head. Dean was changing the subject. He knew Anthony had been hurting his brother pretty badly. He'd seen parts of it. "Dean---"

"Food's getting cold, Sam. You know how Bobby is about wasting money, so start eating before he comes back in here."

Sam reluctantly tore into one of the pancakes. At least, that's how it started. He actually was starving, and ate fast. He felt Dean watching him and looked up, a little embarrassed. Dean was shaking his head in amusement, and went back to his own food. They ate in silence for a while.

Sam couldn't help but stare at his brother, examining him visually in the absence of conversation. Dean looked bad. His face looked tired and drawn, he hadn't shaven in a while, and his shoulders slumped. Worse, his left arm was wrapped in gauze bandages.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam." The tone was final, and familiar. His brother didn't want to talk about it.

Bobby re-entered the room before Sam could say anything else.

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Dean looked Sam over for injuries, cleaning and re-wrapping the long cut Anthony had made on his arm. Aside from that, and the deep bruise on his neck where the needle had gone in, it was mostly bumps and bruises. Sam had been lucky, all things considered.

"You two better skip town, if you're done here," Bobby told them, pointing at the Desert Journal newspaper he'd brought back. "A girl was assaulted the other night, and she describes the guy as six-four, brown, shaggy hair…."

Dean frowned. "Was she a cop? I warned Sherry ---"

Sam spoke up before Bobby could. He looked miserable. "No. There was a girl---either in a bar or a club somewhere---I saw Anthony talking to her. Right before you tried to get away the first time, Dean."

"Must have been that first time he left... Is she okay, Bobby?"

The older hunter shrugged. "She's alive. Doesn't sound like he fed on her for very long, just roughed her up. She's already out of the hospital."

Dean felt relieved that the girl was all right, but Sam was shaking his head.

"I shoulda been able to stop him..."

Bobby looked uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation, and began collecting the leftovers of breakfast and placing them in a bag. "I'm gonna look around…make sure you two aren't on any wanted posters. I'll hang around town for a while and make sure everything's okay until you boys leave."

Dean tried to smile, though he wasn't sure what it ended up looking like. "Thanks, Bobby. We really appreciate it."

The older hunter nodded and left the room. Dean watched him go, almost regretfully. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation he knew needed happen. He turned back to his brother, who was rubbing his temples with a pained expression.

"Headache?" Dean asked. Sam merely shrugged in response. "You did everything you could, Sammy."

"I should have kept us out of this room. The moment I saw it, I knew it was the same one from the vision. We shouldn't have stayed."

"Hey," Dean protested, "_I'm _the one who decided that we should stay in the room, Sam. But, hell, even if I hadn't, it still would have happened! We still would have run across that groundskeeper in the cemetery."

He frowned when Sam said nothing. He knew better than to press when his brother was in one of these moods, but in this case, he felt he needed to.

"Besides, with what he was putting you through, I don't see how you could have done anything different."

That got Sam's attention. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "Anthony...he showed me the memory he was making you relive. The night in the cabin."

Sam frowned. "I don't un--- How?"

"Well, that's the thing," Dean said with a laugh. "Turns out...well, this sounds crazy, but you made some kinda freaky psychic link with me. He said it's been there for years."

"That's crazy... I mean---" Sam stammered. Dean knew he was right, it didn't sound possible. _A psychic link with me that's been there for _years Dean didn't understand that. His brother's abilities had only started a little over sixteen months before, right before Jess' death.

Hadn't they?

"I can't believe that. Anthony must have been lying," Sam said dismissively. Maybe even a little hopefully. Dean frowned at him, feeling uncomfortable.

"Well, I can tell you some things about what I saw. That would prove it one way or another, right?"

Sam shrugged. He sounded like he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "I guess…."

"Um, okay," Dean began, absently rubbing his chin while he thought about it. "Well…I'm trying to think of something that I wouldn't have seen when I burned the cabin down. I knew the layout…and about your injuries…. Okay, the guards. The two vampires that stood behind you while--- Uh, _during_…. Um, one was brown-haired, had a scar on his cheek, and the other was shorter, wearing a T-shirt and looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days---"

"Stop!" Sam held up a hand. Dean had no way of knowing which vampires had been in the room besides Drew. The only way he could know was if Anthony had really been showing him Sam's memories.

"Oh, Jesus," Sam muttered. "You really saw it…." He sounded horrified. Dean couldn't exactly blame him. He knew that if it had happened to him, he wouldn't have wanted others to see either.

The look of disbelief stayed on Sam's face, but Dean could plainly see that he was reeling. He cringed and squeezed his eyes shut, not looking at Dean anymore.

Dean was uncomfortable with where this conversation was leading them, and tried to get it back on point. "Look, the point is, he said the only reason he could do that is because there was a link between us. He said you probably created it a long time ago and didn't even know it was there."

"How would I even _do_ that? I can't control this stuff..."

"Beats me," Dean shook his head. "But, he was right. You used it last night. I, uh--- Don't tell anybody, but I, kinda...felt you in my head last night. You asked me if I was okay."

Sam's incredulous look faltered. Dean swore that he saw guilt take its place for a moment. "Um...I thought that was just a dream..."

Dean saw his opening. He needed to get this out in the open now, before his brother clammed up. "He said that you've been hearing what I think."

The mix of embarrassment and guilt on his little brother's face confirmed it. "The past couple of days---well, before Anthony---it was happening a lot. On the way here, at Mrs. Stuart's house, and when we stopped for dinner."

Dean tensed a little. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of Sam having an open phone line into his brain. _I mean, there are some things even brothers don't share, right?_

"What--- What kind of things did you hear?" Dean asked cautiously.

Sam started fidgeting. "It was…I dunno. It was more feelings at first. Remember I told you I kept cracking jokes at Drew at the beginning? That I felt like I was 'channeling' you?" Dean nodded, and he continued. "Well, I think I really was in some way. I mean…I don't think that was what you were thinking at the time, just…just the _way_ you think. It wasn't until we got here that I started hearing actual thoughts."

"You should have told me..." Dean muttered, staring out the window so that Sam could have some room to breathe.

"I _swear_ I didn't know what it was. I wasn't spying or anything, it was...it was just _happening_ and I couldn't help it."

Then again, Dean thought, it was _Sam_. He'd had to share a lot of things with his little brother over the years. Food, beds, cars, clothes…and he'd done it all willingly. What was one more thing? _Besides_, he thought to himself, _how many times have I wondered what was going on in _his_ head?_

"I believe you," Dean said with a shrug, accepting it much more easily than Sam probably would have imagined. "Just another comic book super-power you get to have and I don't."

"Dean---"

"You realize that you're gonna have to practice _that_ too, now, right?"

"Dean, I---"

"'Cause as soon as you rest up a little you're gonna start exercising that brain of yours again, man. Enough slacking off---"

"Dean!"

Dean looked over at Sam, amused but making his face appear innocent. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I know I should have told you, but…I guess I was embarrassed," Sam said quietly.

"Eh," Dean waved his hand dismissively. "I probably wouldn't have said anything either. Don't worry about it." He paused. "So...did you hear anything interesting?"

Sam stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable---which was odd for Sam---and for a moment Dean worried that the answer might be "no." _I read your mind and couldn't find anything interesting...I mean, how rude would that be?_

But when Sam finally spoke, Dean knew he shouldn't have doubted his little brother's manners.

"It was all pretty girls and big black cars."

A smile crept onto Dean's face. "Well, what else is there?"

Sam grinned, but it didn't last long. "You never answered me earlier. Are you okay? I mean really?"

Dean frowned, but tried to hide it. Truth be told, he was exhausted and sore, but he wasn't about to tell Sam that. If he did, the mother-henning wouldn't stop for days, and Sam needed to rest himself. No, he knew better than that. "Takes more than some little punk to take me out... _You _look like shit though."

"Gee, thanks."

"Seriously, man," Dean added. "Why don't you get some sleep? You were up for, what, three days? At least I had the option of passing out. Besides, we need to lay low until we can blow this town."

"Yeah, right," Sam said with a faint smile. "I guess I always get the easy jobs…."

Sam did as Dean suggested, and climbed back onto his pillow while Dean busied himself getting their belongings picked up. They had a lot of damage control to do before they checked out, what with the blood on the sheets and shattered paintings, and all.

Dean was sorting through the weapons bag when Sam spoke again.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" he answered without looking back.

"You said--- You said Anthony _showed_ you…what I was reliving while he was possessing me?"

Dean tensed. Part of him had hoped they could skip over that. But, as much as he wanted to just bury those memories and move on, he knew that he really ought to talk that over with his brother. Sam didn't have the luxury to forget them like Dean did. He bit his lip and dove in.

"Yeah. He showed me. I…I didn't have a choice. I wouldn't have invaded your privacy like that."

"I know," Sam replied quietly. He sounded the same as that night he'd woken up in the hospital, humiliated. Something in Dean's chest tightened at the sound. He'd never wanted to hear Sam like that again—_ever. _But, as much as it bothered him to hear that tone in Sam's voice, he had to press forward.

"You, um, you didn't tell me everything…." Dean said haltingly, turning slightly to look at Sam over his shoulder. Sam was staring at the wall, biting his lip.

"I, uh--- I mean--- I'm here…if you need to talk about it," Dean added.

Sam's eyes flitted over to him, but didn't meet Dean's gaze. He just shook his head slowly, then turned away.

_Well, that went well_…. Dean griped silently. Frowning, he went back to repacking the bags.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

_Here we go, chapter 10! This was originally part of the previous chapter, but it made the whole thing too long, so I made it another chapter._

_Special thanks to geminigrl11, who made these past two chapters much better than they were originally. _

_I own nothing, reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 10**

_Sam was exhausted, but he kept his eyes locked on Drew, just like he'd been told. Whenever they strayed or closed, Drew made him regret it. _

_The vampire was standing in front of him now, making the frayed ends of the extension cord spark by touching the ends together. It was an intimidation tactic, Sam knew. _

_That didn't make it any easier to ignore, since he was the one being intimidated._

_"D-Drew, please…. I can't…. Please don't…."_

_The stocky blond shook his head, his expression almost sad, but with a touch of satisfaction. "I don't know why you keep doing this to yourself, Sammy. He can't be worth all this…."_

_Sam squeezed his eyes shut at that, despite his instructions not to. He couldn't listen to this monster degrade Dean like he'd been doing. Drew didn't know Dean---didn't even know his _name_---he had no right. So, he closed his eyes and blocked out the words, knowing that this round with the electricity would be worse because he disobeyed._

_But Dean was worth it._

_"You're weak, Sam. Just tell me his name. If you meant anything to him, he'd have rescued you by now. Tell me what I want to know and this'll be over."_

_Sam growled at Drew. How dare this undead THING judge his brother? Sam cursed his captor even as the frayed wire made contact with his stomach._

_He wished he knew who was screaming like that_….

"Sam!"

Sam bolted upright in the bed, breathing hard and sweating. Dean's hands were on his shoulders. "Wha--- Yeah, I'm up."

"You were having a nightmare," Dean said simply. Sam felt his cheeks turn red when he remembered the dream, and realized he must have been shouting in his sleep.

"Sorry."

Dean let his hands drop away, and Sam pulled himself up so that he was resting against the headboard. He rubbed his eyes and tried to push away the memories.

Anthony's meddling in his mind had dredged up all kinds of little details that he'd spent the past two months desperately trying to forget. The heat of the hot poker, the sharp-edged metal of the biker belt, even the calluses on Drew's hands...he remembered it all. Of course, he'd always remembered those things; it was just that with Dean's and Sarah's help, he'd been able to bury them.

Anthony had merely proven just how _shallow_ a grave he'd been able to bury them in. It hadn't taken much at all to bring all the gory details right back to the surface. One little possession by a psi-vampire with a taste for bad dreams, and it was all falling apart.

The worst part was, he couldn't tell Dean about it. After all the sleepless nights, all the chick-flick moments he knew Dean hated, he thought that he'd finally began to move forward. How could Sam admit to Dean that all that work had been for nothing? He'd leaned on his brother and his girlfriend too much already. He couldn't---wouldn't---lay another burden at their feet.

Dean's voice broke into his thoughts.

"You know, I was really hoping that he was lying about that part. That it was just another of his little mind games…."

Sam looked over at him, confused by the abrupt comment. "What?"

"Anthony," Dean replied, staring at the floor. Sam could see his jaw working. Dean was mad. "He said that you'd been lying to me. That you weren't getting any better and just didn't want to tell me. He wasn't lying was he?"

"Dean," Sam whispered. He started to reach out and then thought better of it, lowering his hand. "It's not like that. I'm fine."

The platitude sounded lame even to him. He shouldn't have expected it to work on Dean. As it turned out, it didn't. Dean looked up at him, and the look was so sad that it made Sam feel six inches tall.

"You're a good liar, Sammy. I guess Dad and I made sure of that," he shook his head and stood. "Now, I just gotta figure out if you're lying to me, or to _yourself_."

"Dean---" Sam began, but his brother was already stalking around to the dresser, resuming his packing furiously.

"After everything…after Dad, the demon, those twice damned vampires…you _still_ don't trust me. I've been trying to help you, and you're just locking me out."

"Dean, it's---"

"What do I have to do? What will prove it to you that I want to help you?"

Sam was desperate now. He couldn't drop his problems on his brother's shoulders, but he didn't want him to feel _rejected_. It was like everything he did was wrong. He felt a small spark of anger. _Why isn't he getting this?_ His eyes dropped to the bed; he couldn't bring himself to look at Dean.

"Dean, you don't understand."

"Then _make_ me understand, Sam! Tell me what I'm not doing right!"

Drew's taunts floated through his mind. _You're weak, Sam_…_why do you keep doing this to yourself? _

"It's not about you!" Sam shouted.

"Then tell me! Look at me and explain it, Genius!"

_I said look at me, Sam, I won't tell you again_….

"_What do you want me to say?!_" Sam's rage exploded, and he no longer cared about where his problems landed. A small voice in his head screamed for him to get control.

"You want me to tell you that I remember every last thing he did to me?! You want me to tell you how I couldn't stop counting the seconds, no matter how hard I tried? That I remember _every moment of those six hours?_ Or that I relive it every time I fall asleep? Is that what you want to hear, Dean? I already told you my name, _what else do you want from me?!_"

His heart was pounding in his ears, and he barely heard the answer.

"I didn't ask you your name, Sammy…."

Sam blinked and looked around at where he was. He didn't remember getting off the bed. He glanced back at the dresser where they were standing, and saw the mirror. Somehow his hands had grabbed his brother's shirt and he was pressing Dean against the dresser. He didn't know how that had happened, nor did he care at that moment.

Drew was staring back at him in the reflection.

_Oh God…this is what I saw_….

He looked at Dean and quickly pulled his hands back, stumbling backwards toward the bed in his haste to escape this nightmare. To escape the look of shock on Dean's face, and the one of pity he knew would follow. He landed hard. At least it was a mattress and not the floor.

He was still staring in disbelief at how hard his hands were shaking when he saw Dean getting closer out of the corner of his eye. Dean was holding his hands out, like he was approaching some wild animal.

"Sammy…I'm your brother. All right? I just want to help you."

His mouth was working before he could stop it. "You can't. I'm the one who's screwed up. _I_ need to fix this. I have to do it myself."

"No, you don't, Sam. That's not true."

"I've dumped enough on you already…."

"It doesn't matter," Dean said quietly. At some point Dean had sat beside him on the bed. "That's what I'm here for, bro. Let me help you."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the look of disappointment that he knew would be in Dean's eyes. "I just didn't want to tell you. That I was weak…."

"You're not weak, Sam."

"He made me tell him your name that night…I didn't want to, he forced me to."

"I know," Dean replied softly. "You already told me."

"Anthony…somehow--- Somehow, he knew how this memory made me feel. He knew it would hurt me enough to keep me from fighting him."

"Yeah," Dean, somehow, didn't sound as judgmental as he had expected.

Sam groaned, and rubbed his forehead. A terrific headache was forming, he could feel it. "God…it's like he opened flood gates or something. It's all swirling around up there, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Dean's hand squeezed his shoulder. "We'll work on it."

"How?" Sam asked. He couldn't fathom how anything could possibly help him anymore.

"I dunno," Dean said quietly.

"I don't _deserve_ you're help, Dean. No after I lied to you for so long."

"Sammy…let's just put that behind us, okay? You made a mistake. Don't torture yourself over it."

Sam looked over at him, his vision swimming and his eyes burning. "How can you just forgive me? Why aren't you mad?"

Dean frowned. "Do you want me to be?"

He considered that for a moment, and gave the only answer he could find. "Yes."

"Would it help?" Dean asked, his voice guarded. "If I was mad? If I yelled at you or knocked you on your ass…would it fix anything?"

Sam felt overwhelmed, like he was drowning. He didn't have any more answers in him. He dropped his head into his hands, wanting to crawl away. "I don't know. I don't know anything…."

He felt the hand on his shoulder tighten. "I think we've been beat up enough for one year, you know? I don't _want_ to be mad at you."

Sam didn't have anything left to respond with. He couldn't understand how Dean could forgive him so easily, and he was too tired to keep trying to think at all. He felt the hand move, and then Dean's arm was draped over his shoulders. Sam wanted to cry.

"We'll figure something out," Dean said. "Just _trust_ me, this time. All right?"

Something about the quiet resolve in his brother's voice steadied him, he clutched onto the sound like a life preserver. He nodded. Dean just stayed there, letting silence fall down over them.

It was a while before Sam could build up enough courage to even whisper. When he could, there was only one thing he wanted to say. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

"I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner."

"What can I say?" Sam asked, a faint smile crossing his face as he inexplicably felt some of the burden lift from him. "I'm a good liar."

"God, I wanna kick your ass sometimes…." Dean rolled his eyes and smiled.

That, irrationally, made Sam feel better.

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They ended up staying for two more days. Bobby had been concerned about the local cops' activity, and had suggested they lay low for a while longer before leaving. The older hunter had moved on himself then, since they were all right. He told them he was going to visit some friends in the area before heading home.

Dean passed the time watching television and sampling every delivery restaurant in the vicinity. Sam marveled at how many pizza joints there were around the area. Whatever spare time he had---between eating and generally being a couch potato---Dean spent on the laptop, researching. He refused to say what he was looking for, but Sam figured it involved ways to help with flashbacks and post-traumatic stress.

Sam spent the time trying to recover his motor-skills and self-control. Several days with someone running around in his body seemed to have confused his nervous system. His hands refused to work sometimes, and he tripped over his feet a lot. Getting his straw into the soft drink he'd gotten with dinner had taken three frustrating tries.

But, he was getting it back relatively quickly, so he wasn't worried. Dean was even making fun of him, so he knew it would be all right.

He'd had another nightmare that first night, a violent one that had sent Sam thrashing out of the bed and onto the floor. Dean had woken him from it, and had sat up with him until he was tired enough to return to sleep. Sam had forced himself to tell his brother about it. It seemed like the right thing to do, even if it embarrassed him in the process.

Aside from that, he and Dean hadn't spoken much since the…outburst. But, the silence wasn't oppressive. Dean seemed to be simply giving him space, and didn't appear to be angry.

Sam was still puzzling over that part. Why wasn't Dean angry at him for lying all this time? Why wasn't he disappointed? Sam certainly was. But, his brother was--- Well, Dean was confusing the hell out of him. He couldn't detect any reproach or reprimand in Dean's actions or words. He'd expected his brother to be furious, hurt. And he _was_ hurt…Sam knew he was. But, Dean seemed to genuinely move forward…and to help him rather than blame him. Sam wasn't sure he was worthy of such compassion. He didn't feel worthy.

In any event, things finally seemed to be getting back to the norm on the afternoon of the second day, when Sam came out of the shower and found Dean reclined on the bed, watching Oprah.

"Dude," Sam spoke up for the first time that day, "what are you doing?"

"She's giving away cars, Sammy," Dean said, wonder coloring his voice. "That's so cool. We should get on there."

"Why? We have a car."

Dean shrugged, still entranced by the TV. "We could always use a spare. A _stunt_ car, you know? Like when we helped Cassie with that killer truck last year? That way, the next time you decide to test one of your theories about hallowed ground killing evil spirits, we'll have a disposable car to use instead of my baby."

Sam rolled his eyes, pulling his clothes on with an exasperated sigh. "Are you _ever_ going to let that go?"

That made Dean smile. "Nope."

Sam was saved when his cell phone started ringing. He was busily pulling his jeans on, so he just reached over and turned on the speaker phone without looking.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, it's me_."

Sam blinked. "Sarah? Hi!"

"_You finished with your job yet?_"

Something in her voice told Sam that something was up, but he had no idea what it could be. He hadn't spoken to her since they'd left Alamogordo. "Uh, yeah. We're just taking a breather before we head out. It's been a long week."

"_That's great_," Sarah said. "_I was wondering if you'd thought anymore about what we talked about the other day_."

Sam frowned, trying to remember what they'd discussed. All he could remember offhand was the idea that he and Dean might head back East, so he assumed that was what she meant.

"Uh, well…actually, it's been so busy the last few days, I haven't really had a chance." He bluffed. Then he quickly added. "Did you have any ideas?"

"_Actually, I did_," she replied, and Sam could hear the smile in her voice. "_Las Vegas_."

Sam repeated the words as a question, feeling completely baffled. They'd talked about going back East, not Sarah coming out here. Where was this coming from? He did note, though, that the words "Las Vegas" had caught Dean's attention, and that he had muted the TV and sat up.

"Sarah, I uh…I thought we were going to head back East? You want to fly out here?"

There was an amused sigh on the other end. "_You really know how to make a girl feel listened to, Sam_…."

Sam panicked. Somehow, he'd missed something here. "No, uh--- I'm sorry, I---"

Dean shook his head and mouthed _Smooth_. Sam flipped him off.

Sarah didn't sound upset though, if her laughter was any indication. "_All right, sweet-talker. We talked on the phone the other day…you had just eaten lunch, and you suggested that we meet out there. Any of this ringing a bell?_"

He couldn't say _No_, like he was thinking, so he looked at Dean in desperation and held up his hands in confusion. Dean frowned and gestured for him to play along.

"And I suggested Las Vegas?" Sam asked, surprise filtering through his voice. Dean rolled his eyes again.

Sarah seemed to notice his distress. "_Sam, babe, are you okay?_"

Sam sat down on the bed. "Yeah, I am…it's just--- Well, I've been kinda out of it this week. It's a long story," he shrugged at Dean.

"_So, do you want to go? To Las Vegas?_ _You think it's a good idea?_"

He saw Dean waving his arms frantically, and looked over. Dean had scribbled something in big letters on the motel stationery. _SAY YES!!! _It seemed Dean didn't need to know the details Sam was fishing for. Regardless of the reason, Dean never turned the chance for that kind of trip down.

Sam rolled his eyes, but had to agree, this time, at least. "I think it's a great idea, Sarah," he said quickly. "You want us to meet you there?"

"_I have to work for the next two days, but I can catch a plane the day after tomorrow. If you're sure you want to...I don't want to force you_---"

Sam smiled, despite how quickly this conversation seemed to be moving. "No, it's a great idea. I...it's just been a long week, I got a little confused. Dean and I will head up there and find us a place to stay."

"Confused" was an understatement if Sam had ever heard one.

"_Okay. Well, I'll see you in a couple of days. Maybe you can tell me this long story of yours when I get there_."

"I will," Sam said. "I promise. Call me when you get the ticket and I'll see you at the airport."

He ended the call, then looked over at his brother, who was grinning smugly. "What the hell, man? I never talked about going to Vegas with her."

"Who cares?" Dean exclaimed. "It's Vegas, man! We haven't been there since we were kids!"

"But, she said we _already _talked about it."

Dean sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. "Um...well, I think I know what _that's_ all about..."

Sam frowned. "You do? What?"

"Well, look, I'm not one hundred percent sure, but," Dean said, looking uncomfortable. "I think she may have called while Anthony was...you know, _here_."

"_What?!" _Sam said, jumping to his feet. "He talked to Sarah?!"

"He asked me about her. I mean, he could have just stumbled over a memory, but…it sounded like something else…."

Sam growled, stalking the room like a predator. "That son of a---!"

Dean held his hands up, placating. "Whoa! Whoa, there Rambo... We dusted him, remember? And from that call it didn't sound like she was upset. He probably was just... Geez, I guess he was trying to get her out here with him."

Sam huffed angrily. To think what Anthony could have done—would have, if Sarah had been closer. It made him feel cold down to his bones. And murderous. But, Dean was correct, of course. It wasn't like Sam could salt and burn Anthony _again_.

Though at that moment, he would have liked to try.

"Look, forget it," Dean said. "He didn't do anything to her, she's fine. And we're getting a well-deserved vacation. When she gets out here, you can check for yourself, but she _sounds_ fine."

Sam hung his head and nodded, breathing deeply to calm himself. He pushed aside the bright flare of worry that was trying to consume him. The panic was slowly replaced by annoyance.

He grimaced. "This whole week has been so fucked up."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, you're telling me. You okay?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah, sure. Defending Sarah from deranged psychic deviants that possess me…I'm just peachy."

"Hey," Dean laughed. "Don't knock it. This knight in shining armor thing will probably get you laid…."

Sam glared at him, but then squeezed his eyes shut. Responding with words would only encourage Dean when he was in these moods, so, with a flash of inspiration, he chose another tactic. He visualized Dean's pillow in his mind, and focused on it.

A throb of pain behind his eyes told him it was working. A few seconds later, he heard an "oof."

He opened his eyes in time to see the pillow fall away from the back of Dean's head. He grinned, wincing when his newly formed headache flared.

"Wha--- Did--- Did you do that?" Dean stammered.

Sam smiled smugly, and shrugged. "I hadn't practiced yet today. Seemed as good a time as any."

"Oh, ha-ha," Dean griped. He placed his pillow back in its place, muttering the entire time.

"…Bitch…I'll kick your telekinetic ass…."

Sam listened to Dean's rant while he finished dressing and packed his clothes. At some point, he realized that, even though he could still hear him, Dean had stopped talking.

…_freakin' Jean Grey wannabe…why can't I get a super-power? But, no, Sammy gets to go all Luke Skywalker, and me? I'm just Dean…._

The last part made him speak, even though he wasn't sure how Dean would react to his unintentional eavesdropping. "No, dude…that would make you Han Solo. The guy with the coolest ride in the galaxy."

Dean froze, looking at him in surprise. Sam shrugged sheepishly, fearing that he might have crossed a line somewhere. "It happened again. Sorry."

His brother just looked at him blankly for a moment, then smirked. "Han Solo, huh? I can live with that."

The annoyed ravings from earlier were replaced by a feeling. One that Sam was picking up on without even trying. Amazement, wrapped in surprise…with a hint of pride. At first, he thought they were his own feelings, but they didn't _feel_ like his. It made him smile to himself.

They had to be Dean's.

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They left that night under cover of darkness. They'd go north, hop I-40 in Albuquerque and head to Las Vegas. If all went well, they'd be there the next morning.

Sam waited by the car door, while Dean turned in the room keys. They'd done a fair job on cleaning up the room, but Dean planned on cutting up that credit card in case they charged them for the remaining mess. No big loss---the card was almost maxed out anyway.

He found himself staring off into space. He regretted lying to Dean for so many weeks, and was frankly embarrassed that Dean had witnessed that terrible night first-hand, thanks to Anthony's sick mind games. But, Dean hadn't reacted the way he'd expected. In fact, the way things turned out, Dean was dealing with everything surprisingly well, which made Sam feel even worse, knowing the subterfuge hadn't been necessary.

He felt worse in other ways, too, the nightmares having returned with a vengeance. He'd woken out of them three times the night before. Sometimes, it was Drew and the cabin, sometimes, it was the black void and he'd feel trapped, and sometimes, it'd be his battles with Anthony. Those were the strangest, showing him weird, distorted, horrific images that seemed to try and smother him.

Dean was always there when he opened his eyes, and he always tried to settle Sam's nerves enough so he could return to sleep. That made Sam feel even guiltier. He was leaning on his brother again, just like he had been during those first few weeks after his abduction. It made his efforts to hide his recent problems utterly useless.

Nothing could change the fact that Drew had broken him that night. Nothing could change the fact that he'd given Dean over to Drew at the end. Yet, Sam had been wrestling with those unchangeable facts for two months.

By forcing Sam to relive those moments over and over, thus reigniting his more violent flashbacks, Anthony had demolished the carefully built shell of denial that Sam had been living in, and forced him to reveal as much to Dean.

Now, he wasn't sure what to do. His pride had made him bury his feelings and push away the people he'd been relying on. He hadn't been able to bear the feeling of helplessness that came with their compassion. It made him feel petty. Ungrateful.

Dean, though, was hopeful. He seemed to believe that now, with things out in the open, they could start to make real progress. Sam wasn't so sure.

_Hell, Dean's _always_ hopeful, even though he denies it_. Sam wished he could share in it this time.

"Yo! You ready to roll, little brother?" Dean called out as he approached the Impala, shaking Sam out of his thoughts.

"Ready to blow this joint…." Sam replied wearily.

Dean was all smiles. "Well, let's go. Vegas awaits!"

Sam rolled his eyes, but followed Dean into the car. As soon as they hit the seat, he heard Dean curse.

"Damn it! That bastard!"

Sam looked over. "What's wrong?"

Dean sighed, looking upset. "Anthony adjusted the seat…."

The annoyance in his brother's voice, and the ridiculousness of singling out that innocuous little thing over everything else that happened during the week, made Sam laugh out loud.

"Well, if that's the worst that's happened…."

"Shut up, Sammy. It's the principle. You don't screw with my baby."

Sam was still laughing, and he pointed at the road. "Come on, bro. Vegas awaits."

TBC


	11. Epilogue

_Well, sadly, it seems people have lost interest in this one. Well, here's the final chapter. Thanks to those who are still following and have left reviews. _

_Faye Dartmouth and Geminigrl11 has been an incredible help on this story, thank you so much, ladies!_

_I own nothing. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 11**

"Oh...oh, yeah..." Sam moaned.

"That feels _so _good," Dean added.

"God...this is incredible..."

Dean smiled lazily, "Mmmm, Sammy...we should have done this a long time ago..."

Sam frowned, or tried to; sheer enjoyment kept it from forming on his face. "I...I don't think I should tell Sarah about this..."

"Nah...she just wouldn't understand," Dean agreed. The masseuse's hands moved to his lower back, eliciting a deep, contented moan. "Besides, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas..."

"You always wanted to come here..."

"Worth the wait wasn't it, Sammy?"

Dean saw his brother's masseuse move her hands to Sam's shoulders just as he answered. "Oh..._yeah_..."

They'd arrived in town late that morning, a wreck on the Interstate holding them up during the early hours of the day, and checked in at a nice Fairfield Inn hotel two blocks off the Strip. The selling point was that it had a honeymoon suite available.

Dean decided that the funny look the receptionist gave the two of them when he asked for it was worth the embarrassment to get Sam and Sarah their own bedroom.

It wasn't one of the iconic mega-hotels that the town was famous for, but it more than suited their purposes. They were using some of the money from their Dad's insurance settlement, not the credit cards. They hadn't wanted to waste the money their Dad had somehow managed to secure for them; anything more than the dives they usually stayed in still felt like an extravagance.

Not that either of them really planned on splurging anyway. Dean was going to try some of the poker games, Sam wanted to take Sarah to some of the shows, and they needed to eat. That was about it.

Well, and this nice relaxing massage package that the---quite attractive---concierge at the hotel had suggested.

"I've got to bring Sarah here tomorrow..." Sam slurred.

"Thought you weren't gonna tell her…."

Sam mumbled something totally incoherent.

Dean grinned evilly. "You know, she'll probably get a _guy_ for hers."

Sam managed a frown this time. "Hmm. Maybe I'll do it myself then..."

Dean groaned. "Too much information, little brother!"

Sam mumbled something unintelligible again as his eyes started to drift shut. Dean, with some effort, raised his very relaxed arm to swat at Sam's. "Hey...no sleeping. The sauna appointment's next."

"I'm glad you went with the package...it's worth the extra money..." Sam sighed.

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Dean was right.

There was nothing quite like sitting on top of the Seattle space needle and drinking a beer with your brother.

All right, so it wasn't really _the_ Seattle space needle. Heck, it wasn't even Seattle. But, it was Las Vegas' imitation of it, the Stratosphere Tower. The view of the city below, the Strip, and the desert beyond was spectacular.

They sat on the outside observation deck, by the railing, sipping beers. Sam was idly rubbing at the still sore, but fading, bruise on his neck from where Dean had injected him when he felt his brother's eyes on him.

"Neck still hurt?"

"Just a little. It's going away," Sam shrugged. He glanced over when Dean snickered, curious.

"You can tell people that it's a hickey."

He snorted, shaking his head. "I'm a little old for that, don't you think?"

The evil glint in Dean's eye told him he'd just walked into something. His brother confirmed that a moment later.

"Really? Then how do you explain all those turtle necks you wore the week after we took Sarah to the fair?"

Sam felt warmth rush to his cheeks and he silently cursed his ability to blush. "It was February, Dean. It was cold."

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded mockingly. "And that trip into the photo booth had nothing to do with it, right?"

_Actually, that little photo booth had everything to do with it_, he thought. But, he wasn't about to admit that to Dean. "Shut up."

"You never showed me those pictures, by the way---"

"Shut up!"

Dean looked impressed. "That X-rated, huh? I'm surprised. Little booth like that…there's not much room---"

"Dean---"

"So, when do you need to pick her up?" Dean asked, changing subjects so fast that Sam barely had time to stew. He really did spend his life enduring Dean's attacks of being an ass…. He pushed his annoyance aside, with difficulty.

"Not 'til eight. Her plane was delayed."

Dean looked smug. "See? That's why I don't fly. Cars don't have schedule delays."

Sam smirked. "Oh yeah? I thought it was because every time you set foot on a plane you scream like a little girl."

Dean grimaced. "That only happened once, and it was during an exorcism!"

"Yep. And my Latin was really improved by your chorus of AHHHH!" Sam laughed, waving his arms in mock panic.

Dean glared. "Shut up."

Sam took another sip of his beer, relishing the conversation's sudden shift into his favor. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. It was long enough for Sam to start thinking that he was lucky to be able to spend his life enduring _these_ moments too.

But, there were other pressing matters waiting to be discussed. As always. And loathe though Sam was to be the one to initiate the conversation, he needed Dean's input.

"So…." Sam began, then faltered. He covered by taking another sip.

"So." Dean replied noncommittally. It wasn't the opening Sam had hoped for. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.

"So…any advice on how to tell her?"

By the look on his brother's face, Sam knew that Dean understood the question. He was glad he didn't have to spell it out.

"The direct approach always works best," Dean said with a shrug, watching a plane land at the nearby airport. Sam stared at him incredulously until he amended. "Well, ninety percent of the time."

Sam frowned and followed Dean's gaze to where the little puddle-jumper was landing. "Somehow, I don't think that's the best plan."

"Why not?"

Sam tried not to sound too condescending. "Sarah, hi! Glad you're here! Oh, by the way, my flashbacks are worse than ever and I put a guy in the hospital back in Denver because I flipped out and saw a dead vampire instead of him…."

Dean only nodded, obviously taunting him while he scanned the area to make sure no one could overhear them. "Pretty much like that. Except, I would add the fact that the guy was a multiple murderer and he deserved it."

Sam turned to stare at him. "Dean---"

His brother merely stared back, challenging.

Sam shook his head and backed down. "I can't do that."

"Why not?"

_Dean's starting to sound like a broken record_, Sam mused. "I--- Because I _can't._"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Look, you said you wanted my help."

"Yeah, breaking the news to her, not breaking us up!" Sam snapped. Why wasn't Dean taking this seriously?

"What makes you think that she'll break up with you?"

"Dean---" Sam began, then paused, turning and placing his beer bottle on the table between them. "Dean, you of all people know what happens when you suddenly dump the truth on somebody."

Again, he could tell Dean knew what he was referring to, and for a moment, Sam wondered if he was using the psychic link again unintentionally.

"That was totally different," Dean said, waving his hand dismissively.

"How?"

"Because Cassie thought I was just a normal, irresistibly sexy guy," Dean frowned when Sam rolled his eyes, but pressed on, "and when I told her what I did for a living, she thought I was crazy."

"And?" Sam asked, not following. "How's that different than this?" _I've been lying to you and her for almost a month, pretending I was getting better_.

Dean stared at him patiently. "You took Sarah ghost-hunting the second night that you knew her. She already _knows_ you're crazy. She'll take this much better than Cassie."

Exasperated, Sam turned back to the railing with a huff, irritated that Dean was just cracking jokes at his expense. "You're impossible."

He heard Dean sigh. "Sam---"

Sam looked up when Dean paused, just in time to see Dean reach over and snag Sam's phone from the table top. He hit a few buttons and scrolled down something on the screen. He turned it over and held it out. "Read this."

He did as he was told, confused, reading one of his saved messages. It was from Sarah, received a few weeks earlier; one day when they kept missing each other's calls. The words on the screen caused his mouth to tug into an automatic smile. Dean snapped his fingers.

"See? That right there. That stupid little grin you get when someone even mentions her name. I guarantee you that she does the same thing when she thinks about you. _That's_ why it's different."

Sam frowned, blinking when his eyes moistened. Okay, maybe Dean was taking this seriously. He sighed and deactivated his phone. "I don't know, Dean…."

Dean was frowning back at him. "Look, Sam. You said that you were going to start being honest with me and Sarah. That you were gonna start trusting me. You backing out on that?"

His head jerked back at that. "No, Dean…of course not…."

"Then trust me. I know women and I know her. I wouldn't be telling you this if I didn't believe it."

Sam considered his brother's words and face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?" Dean pressed.

He smiled sadly and nursed his beer. "Yeah. You're right. I have to face the music on this."

Dean nodded triumphantly. "Damn straight. And believe me, you'll feel a helluva lot better when you do. Just trust her, Sam."

Sam just nodded and turned back to the view. He watched Dean do the same out of the corner of his eye. A thought occurred to him and he smirked.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"If you're wrong, and she does break up with me? We're gonna come back here, and I'm gonna throw you over that railing."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then laughed and took a swig of his beer. "That sounds fair."

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Sam stepped out into the main room of the suite, dropping onto one of the stools by the small bar to pull on his shoes. Dean was sitting at the table, tapping keys on the laptop.

"You leaving to pick Sarah up?" Dean asked, glancing from the screen only briefly.

"Yeah, I'm gonna leave in a minute," Sam replied, noting with some dismay that his voice was quivering.

Dean did look up now. "You okay?"

Sam shifted from foot to foot, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm a little nervous."

"Don't worry about it. She's into you…for some reason."

That made Sam frown, but he wasn't sure if it was due to the comment, or the fact that he couldn't muster a comeback to it. His brother noticed the expression.

"Sammy, relax. It'll be fine."

The words didn't offer much reassurance, despite their intent. Sam shook the worry off and busied himself with gathering his watch, wallet, and the car keys. He glanced over at Dean a few times, trying to see what he was doing on the computer, but the screen was angled away. He switched to the direct approach, emulating his big brother's advice.

"So, what are you looking at?" Sam smirked. "Busty Asian Beauties dot com again?"

Dean grinned. "No, I only do that when you're asleep."

"Ugh," Sam groaned. "I don't want to know _why_…."

"Shut up…."

A smile played across Sam's face. The banter was helping his nerves. Normally, he'd be thrilled just to see Sarah, let alone spend a few days on vacation with her. But, this time was different. He had to break the news to her that he'd been dishonest about his recovery, and that his flashbacks had _hurt_ someone. In Sam's mind, it didn't matter that the guy, as Dean had pointed out, deserved it. The lapses in control---hell, they were practically black outs, since Sam sometimes couldn't remember what he'd done---made him dangerous.

That realization had triggered a new line of thought over the past few days. If the flashbacks made him dangerous to others, including Dean, then was it even _safe_ for Sarah to be around him?

That idea made him queasy.

Dean didn't agree. He argued that, for all the repressed anger and frustration, and regardless of the incident in Denver, Sam hadn't actually hurt him during any of the episodes. He'd come close twice, but had always come out of it before anything happened. Dean used that as reassurance to Sam that Sarah should be safe. Sam desperately wanted that theory to be true.

The sound of snapping fingers broke his concentration.

"Sammy? Hey, you zoned out on me for a second there."

Sam pushed his thoughts aside with a shrug and shook his head at Dean, indicating that it was nothing. Dean wasn't ready to drop it so easily, though.

"What's going on, Sammy? Something we need to talk about?"

He shrugged. "No…I, just--- Just the past few days have me worried. What if…what if I flip out around Sarah?"

Dean shook his head. "We've been over this, Sammy. You didn't hurt me when you had those flashbacks. I think you'd catch yourself the same way if she was around when it happened. You're just OCD-ing again."

Sam snorted. "Uh, 'OCD-ing' isn't a verb, you know?"

His brother had already turned back to the laptop when he released a long-suffering sigh. "Shut up, geek."

Sam glanced at his watch. He only had a few minutes before he had to go. He looked back at his brother and gestured at the laptop.

"Dude, come on. You've been on that thing for days. Tell me what you've been looking for. I can help."

Dean sighed, but turned the monitor around so Sam could see. He saw a webpage devoted to the treatment of PTSD open in one window, and the contact info for a doctor in another.

"Doctor Gamble? She was the doctor in Ohio…."

"Yeah," Dean confirmed quietly.

"You want to get in touch with her?"

Dean nodded again. "I, uh--- Actually, I think we should go see her."

A shiver traveled down Sam's spine. Going back to that hospital---to that town---wasn't something he wanted to do. _Ever_.

Dean seemed to be the one reading minds this time. "Hey, Sammy...I know man. I wouldn't think of going back there if we didn't need to."

"What do you think she can do?"

"Well, before we left, she talked a lot about getting you some drugs and stuff like talking to---"

"I talk to a shrink and I'll go into a straightjacket for sure, you know that."

"Dude," Dean admonished, holding up a hand. "Chill. You're not gonna talk to any shrink. But she talked about some anti-anxiety drugs before I signed you out. Honestly...I mean--- I was hell-bent on getting you out of that town, and I didn't listen to her that well. But, I think maybe some medication could help. Hell, at least it might take the edge off, you know?"

Sam was still stuck on the whole returning-to-the-town-where-he-was-abducted part, but he shrugged and tried to be open-minded. "I dunno…. Do you think she'd even talk to us after so long?"

"She was the doctor on the scene. I'm sure she'd understand."

A half-hearted nod was all Sam could muster. Saying "I don't want to go back there" wouldn't be helpful. It would be childish.

And it wouldn't even scratch the surface of his feelings on the matter.

Dean, as usual, had little difficulty deciphering his moods by just looking at him. "Hey, dude. I get it, all right? I swore I wouldn't go back there either. But, look…the hospital's outside of town. We'll go there, talk the doc into prescribing something that will help, and we'll get right back on the Interstate. We won't be there two hours, I bet---"

"Okay," Sam put up a hand, stopping Dean's sales pitch. "Okay, I get it."

"Sam---"

"I gotta go. Sarah's plane lands in a few minutes," Sam said quietly, turning for the door. Dean's voice stopped him.

"Sammy? Think about it?"

Sam's hand was on the door handle. "I think you have a good idea, Dean. It's just going to be hard being back there. But, I think you're right."

He stepped out before Dean could answer.

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"That was freakin' awesome!" Dean exclaimed as they left the auditorium.

"See? I told you that you'd like it," Sam grinned walking beside his brother, with Sarah on his arm. After a lot of cajoling and arguing, he'd convinced Dean to join them at a late showing of the Blue Man Group.

Dean had objected, saying that he wouldn't like "that new-age music crap." But, Sam had persisted, and eventually, his brother had caved.

As Sam had anticipated, Dean loved the show, and already wanted to see it again.

It had started raining while they were inside, and an impressive nighttime downpour had developed. They'd left the Impala at the hotel after dropping Sarah's luggage off, and so Dean offered to flag them down a taxi. He disappeared into the crowd in front of the casino, leaving Sam and Sarah alone. They moved off to the side, away from the crowd, so that Sam could keep Dean in sight.

"You've been quiet tonight," Sarah ventured.

Sam tried to smile, and brush it off, but failed at both. "Just been thinking. Dean wants me to do something…but I don't know if I can."

She blinked at him. "What does he want you to do?"

Sam hesitated. He didn't want to get into a long conversation out here on a crowded sidewalk, so he kept it simple. "Go back to Ohio."

"Back to Ohio...as in, back to where...?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Sarah asked, frowning.

He hesitated. Intellectually, he knew Dean was right. He knew he needed to clear the air with Sarah and be honest. Dean was absolutely right.

But Dean wasn't the one who had to stand in front of her and do it.

"It's part of that 'long story' I need to tell you," he hedged, feeling more than a little cowardly.

"Hey, guys! Come on, I got one!" Dean shouted from the curb. A minivan taxi was waiting behind him. Sam turned back to Sarah. "I'll tell you everything later, okay? I promise."

She nodded, and started to head for their waiting ride. He stopped her and pulled her into an embrace. "I missed you."

"Enough with the PDA, man! Let's go!" Dean yelled cheerily. Sam reluctantly let go and escorted Sarah to the car. He tried to ignore Sarah's concerned eyes on the ride back.

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Sam bolted upright, not even fully waking until he was sitting up. He dabbed at the sweat that poured down his forehead. When he could breathe normally again, he glanced around, trying to find his bearings in the darkened room.

The dream had been an intense jumble of images, ranging from the cabin to the dark void to the motel in New Mexico. The one that stood out clearly though, was the one where a white-eyed version of himself was holding Sarah tightly in his clutches, leering at the real him over her shoulder.

_It was only a dream_, he assured himself, blinking his eyes to help them adjust to the dimness of the bedroom. He realized that he should probably try and be quiet too late, as a pair of warm hands wrapped themselves around his shoulders.

"Sam?"

He looked back, just making out Sarah's face amongst the shadows. "Sorry…."

"Nightmare?" she asked softly. He nodded, but then wondered if she could even see him in the gloom. His question was answered when the hands on his shoulders pulled backwards. He considered resisting, and sitting up against the headboard, but the thought died quickly and he allowed her to pull him down onto the pillow. Her hands slid under his arms and held him.

"Wanna talk about it?"

He fought down the "not really" that was on the tip of his tongue. He'd been putting this off all night, and thought he had managed to delay this conversation until the following morning.

As usual, his luck was nowhere to be found.

Pressing his forehead against hers, he whispered. "That story's a little longer than I let on. You sure you want to hear it?"

"I've got all night," she said, kissing his cheek.

Buoyed by her support, Sam took a deep breath and told her everything. About how he hid his true problems from her and Dean. About Denver. About hearing Dean's thoughts. About Anthony and the hellish week he and Dean had spent in New Mexico.

When he finished, almost an hour later, Sarah stunned him. She didn't pull away. She wasn't furious about him lying to her.

In fact, there was no initial reaction. He had just finished telling her about Anthony, eyes tightly shut not only against the memories, but out of fear of her reaction.

"I'm glad you're okay."

Her concern took him by surprise, and he stammered, eyes opening wide.

"S-Sarah, I--- I--" He wasn't sure what he was trying to say. Sam didn't think he could stand it if she reacted the way Dean had. He _needed _her to be mad, he deserved it.

"Did he hurt you? I saw Dean's bruises, and this," she said quietly, her hands ghosting over his still bandaged forearm.

"Sarah...I _lied _to you..." he said. He felt like no one was getting it. No one understood how wrong he'd been. How many times he'd lied. Why didn't they see it?

"Yes," she whispered, pulling him closer. "That was pretty stupid."

He blinked. It wasn't much of an admonishment, but it caught him by surprise. "I'm sorry."

Sarah shook her head once, her fingers rubbing at his bandaged arm gently. "Don't say you're sorry. Just tell me that you're going to be okay."

Sam wasn't sure what to say to that. "I'm trying to be..."

She nodded, and they lay silently for a moment. Sam wanted to speak, but had no clue what to say. He knew he'd hurt her, just as he'd hurt Dean; he just didn't know how to fix it.

"Sarah…I'm so sorry. Please believe that…."

"I do," she looked at him again, shifting slightly beside him. "But…did you think you couldn't trust us? Me?"

Just like that, he was reduced to stammering again. "I--- It's just… I just couldn't keep piling my problems on you two. You and Dean both did so much for me…but I wasn't getting any better. I couldn't tell you that. Not after everything you did for me…."

"We weren't keeping _score_, Sam. You should have told us. Told _me_."

"I was just tired of feeling helpless," he whispered miserably, unable to meet her eyes, even in the dark.

Sarah moved again, wrapping her arms around his neck and placing her forehead against his again. She sighed. "Is Dean gonna kick your ass for this?"

The question blindsided him, and he couldn't stop the bubble of laughter that rose through him. "Yeah…you're gonna have to get in line."

His smile was short lived; a loud voice in his head telling him that he no more deserved her absolution than he had Dean's. He would have handled it better if they'd been furious with him. Anger, he could deal with...even groveling for forgiveness.

But being forgiven so easily…he wasn't sure his psyche could handle _that_.

"Why does Dean want you to go to Ohio?" Sarah asked suddenly.

Sam was startled, but recovered quickly. He took it as a test, even though she was probably just asking a simple question. To him, it was so much more. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to trust her and show it. This was his chance.

"He wants to go see the doctor that fixed me up. He thinks she might have some meds or something…maybe take the edge off my flashbacks," he said sheepishly.

Sam saw her nod in the darkness. "I'm gonna cancel my flight back. I'd like to go with you."

He blinked for a moment. His first instinct was to keep her away from such a meeting. The conversations with the doctor were probably going to force him to uncover a lot of issues he had buried, and he wasn't sure he wanted Sarah to hear them. It was bad enough that _Dean_ would have to witness it.

Another, stronger part of him didn't care about the potential humiliation. That part insisted that having her there, by his side, would only make it easier.

He chose to listen to that part of himself.

"Anything you want," he said softly. "I want to do things differently this time."

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The morning sun was far too bright for Dean's taste.

He sat at the table, sipping coffee and nursing a blistering hangover. After escorting Sam and Sarah back to the hotel and safely tucking the lovebirds away, he'd gone downstairs looking for a drink. Turned out there was a bar, and after a long conversation, he had taken the very sociable concierge up on her suggestion of a nightcap.

He'd just gotten back to the room about an hour before, just long enough to shower and change clothes.

She, in fact, had a great deal of knowledge that went beyond her normal job duties, and he smiled at the memories of what he'd "learned."

His nighttime excursion had also, he hoped, given Sam some time to talk to Sarah. He'd watched them the previous night. His younger brother was all smiles around her, as always, but Dean knew that Sam had spent the better part of the night stalling.

Dean couldn't blame him. He knew that what Sam needed to tell his girlfriend would be difficult. And embarrassing for someone as proud as his little brother. But, the sooner Sam confessed to her, the sooner they could put this mess behind them.

So, being an excellent older brother, he'd walked them to the room, ushered them in, and then poked Sam hard in the ribs, mouthing silent orders to get it over with. Sam had reluctantly nodded, and Dean gave them a little privacy.

He just hoped Sam had done as he'd been told. Dean's pounding headache couldn't handle an argument this morning.

His musings, and his third cup of coffee, were interrupted when the bedroom door opened, and Sam entered the main room. Dean heard the shower running inside. He'd---wisely, he believed---taken the smaller bedroom, leaving the larger honeymoon suite to his all-too-noisy brother. Dean again gave silent thanks for the room's sound-proofing.

Sam stepped over to the kitchen and poured himself some coffee. "Hey."

Dean waved lazily, resting his chin on his hand and blinking heavily. Sam smirked and settled across the table from him.

"You just get back?" Sam asked, smiling knowingly.

"Hour ago. Our friendly concierge Sandy can really drink…." Dean muttered with a tired grin. Sam just shook his head.

"You up for breakfast?" Sam asked.

"Always…I hear the morning buffet at Caesar's is awesome."

"Your hangover's not gonna stop you?"

Dean scoffed. "Please, a little headache won't stop _me_."

"Okay," Sam laughed. "Soon as we're ready, we'll head over there."

"So," Dean started slowly, gulping down more coffee. "You talk to her?"

Sam sobered a little, but nodded. "Yeah, last night."

"She break up with you?"

"No," Sam smirked. "You get to live."

Dean returned the smirk, and finished off his caffeine. "Well? How'd she take it, then?"

Sam started to answer, but was interrupted when Sarah called out from the other room. "Hey, Sam? Can you bring me a towel? I forgot one."

Dean rolled his eyes. He'd heard that one before. Sam dutifully rose from the table, making a pathetic attempt to hide a smile, and moved back toward the bedroom. He paused and looked back at Dean.

"Wait for me, okay? I'll be right back."

"Oh, _please_," Dean groaned. "Think I forgot? The last time she 'forgot her towel' you didn't come out of the shower for an almost an hour!"

Sam's cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and he looked away. He would have appeared abashed had it not been for the small smirk he was wearing. "Yeah, but I came out clean…."

_I know entirely _too much_ about their sex life…I need to ask that doctor for some drugs, too_…. Dean thought, rolling his eyes. He motioned for the door. "I'm going downstairs to get a cab. If you're not down in twenty minutes, you two can get your own ride."

Sam considered that for a moment, then held up four fingers. "How about forty minutes?"

"Thirty!" Dean shot back. It was his final offer. Sam grinned broadly and nodded, already turning for the bedroom.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called. When his brother turned back, he gestured in Sarah's general direction. "I guess it went okay last night? You did tell her, right?"

Sam's smile sobered a bit, but was definitely still a happy expression. Content, even. "Yeah, it went fine. I took your advice."

Dean frowned at him questioningly. Sam's smile strengthened.

"I trusted her."

Sam nodded to him, then turned and vanished into the suite. Dean heard Sam talking in the bathroom, and he hastily grabbed a door key and left the room before he could hear any details.

As he closed the door behind him, he smiled to himself. Sammy had done good.

_I trusted her._

"That's my boy," Dean whispered to himself. He headed downstairs. Maybe Sandy-the-concierge-plus was free to join them for breakfast.

END


End file.
